Scars Of Old
by Ferowyn
Summary: Waking up in a time that has long gone by is as confusing as it is terrifying. The latter especially rings true when Gimli realizes that he is going to meet people he has mourned for decades... and that he might have come here alone. Also, what if - what if he cannot change all the wrongs that happened the last time? SLASH
1. It's a long time since I saw you round

Hobbit Kink Meme Prompt Fill

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><p><strong>1. It's a long time since I saw you round here<strong>

_(The Lord Of The Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring – Chapter 4: A Short Cut to Mushrooms)_

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><p>Gimli awakes with a start, being ripped from his dreams – dreams about war and blood and death, but he can cope with that – by a terrified scream. A scream he would never want to hear drawn from anyone's mouth who is kin, and least of all from his mother's.<p>

He has rolled out of the unfamiliar (too soft, too big, too warm) bed within seconds, hands reflexively reaching towards where his ax is laying, always ready to be drawn – because that is what war does to you, it takes away your inner peace and you will never regain it completely, and it is war that he has seen, plenty of it, raw and brutal. However, his axes are not where they are supposed to be and for a second his heart stops (for how is he supposed to protect his mother from whatever terror is making her scream like that?) but then he sees her, staring at him with wide, shocked eyes, and he forgets to breathe. Or to look for his axes.

Because it is clearly he who has made her scream, there is no other threat to be found in the room.

And now that he has time to try and calm down, time to will his iron hard muscles to relax, he takes a closer look at her. And he forgets all about axes and battles again, for this clearly is the woman who has carried and born him. The woman who has given her everything just to make him happy, who would have gone to Mordor and back if only to grant him a happy childhood.

He would know her anywhere, anytime.

Yet it is not the mother he remembers having said goodbye to just a few weeks prior.

Distantly he recalls travelling to Erebor with Legolas, after the coronation, after Aragorn had taken his rightful place at last. Middle-Earth had been in an uproar, so much had been destroyed, so many lives had been lost. They had been at peace, though, a hard won peace, and despite their huge losses everyone had been celebrating the end of the war. Everyone had been hailing the members of the fellowship, and he and his dear friend had fled the excitement and hidden in the comparatively quiet Lonely Mountain. He had finally had the elf who means so much to him meet his family, despite his father's prejudices – it had gone fairly well, actually, nothing but insults had been exchanged, no fights or declarations of war – and he remembers the happiness in his mother's eyes very well. Because, in spite of everything (elves, and dwarves, and denial of assistance, and Thorin, and Thranduil, and _Erebor_), she had simply been happy that he was.

They had left after a few weeks and spent a little more time in the woodelven king's realm, turning the table – he had entertained both of them bickering with Thranduil and competing with elves, and another couple of weeks later they had left again. Via Rohan they had wandered back towards Minas Tirith, planning to aid Aragorn with whatever he might need, for there would always be problems knocking at the King's door. After all, while there might be peace now, chaos still reigns; and while the hobbits may have returned to their Shire, the last three of the fellowship just cannot imagine leaving the time they had travelled and fought together behind like it has never happened. Aragorn may be King now, and Sauron may be defeated – but they are still the elf, dwarf and ranger who pledged alliance to a tiny halfling, and who even went to bargain with the dead together. There is nothing that can separate them, not even the end of the war and a silly crown.

Or so Gimli had thought.

He remembers leaving Rohan, with King Eomer's best wishes and a message for his sister, now wife of Faramir. They had been following the North-South-Road to Gondor and the last he can recall is falling asleep next to his dear friend, underneath a tree and the White Mountains in their back.

How in Mahal's name can he be in a room and where on Middle-Earth is Legolas?

He looks at his mother again and takes in the differences. Her hair and beard are of a beautiful, fiery red again, the white he had looked upon only weeks ago gone. The deep worry lines on her face have vanished into thin air as well as the weariness in her eyes. She had worried greatly during the war, knowing that her son was off and away, being a hero and risking his life in the process. Although he had come home whole and alive, those lines and the look in her eyes would never leave her face again, not after she had counted and internalized every single new scar. It had pained her to let him go when she had just gotten him back, when she had finally known that he lived, and it had broken Gimli's heart to start out again, leaving her and her worries with his father. However, he could not have stayed. The elf had no place among dwarves, inside their mountain halls, and being without him is something Gimli has never even dared think about.

_Does_ not even dare think about.

He pushes the thought to the back of his mind. Instead he takes a closer look at his mother and sees that she has gotten her agility back, standing tall and strong, and that she is wearing simple, modest clothes. Hardly befitting for one of the line of Durin!

Growing more nervous and confused by the second he takes a look around and finds himself in a room he is alarmingly familiar with. A room he has not seen in eighty years. How can he be in his old dwarfling's room in the _Ered Luin?_

He opens his mouth to say something (not exactly sure what it will be) when the door bursts open and his father rushes into the room, ax drawn.

"What is going on here?"

Then he takes a look at Gimli and is dumbfounded.

Gimli stares at him as well, his hair and beard of as burning a red as his wife's, the white gone. It is probably the shock that makes him say "Am I that horrible to look at?" and maybe the relief to hear his own voice, deep and rough as it is supposed to be, that adds "This smells like time travel. Even an elf would know."

Then the last thing he expects happens. His mother, who has stopped screaming and has just been staring at him for the past few moments, calmer, and with a deep relief in her eyes, begins to laugh. Hysterically. His father joins in and soon Gimli cannot resist any longer, his deep baritone ringing through the room along with theirs.

It silences them rather quickly.

His mother looks into his eyes and smiles. "You are still my Gimli," she says, her voice calm. "Although you are not the Gimli I put to bed and tucked in last night."

For a second he blushes at the thought of being tucked in – if the elf knew that! – but quickly regains his composure. "Aye, I am Gimli Glóin's son," he agrees. "And I have no idea how I got here… into my old room in the Blue Mountains."

"Your old room," his father says slowly, squinting his eyes. "Tell me… _son_… Where were you last?"

"I fell asleep in a small wood along the North-South-Road."

"-In a _wood_?"

"-What were you doing on the North-South-Road?"

Gimli snickers, but nods, answers both questions. "Aye, in a wood. I was travelling with a friend, towards Minas Tirith."

"What would you be doing in Minas Tirith?"

He looks at his father. "I assume you have not the slightest idea who Aragorn, son of Arathorn, is?"

Glóin shakes his head.

"Where I come from he is King of Gondor, and a dear friend of mine."

For a few minutes they stay quiet.

"_Where_ you come from…" his mother finally says, slowly. "Rather _when_ you come from. Tell me, Gimli, son of Glóin" she darts her husband a loving glance "how old are you?"

"A hundred and forty," he answers, finally sitting down on the bed. He sees his parents gasp for air.

"Yesterday evening you were only sixty-two," Glóin whispers when his wife seems unable to do so.

Gimli quickly counts backwards. "We are still in the Ered Luin – thus you have not left for Erebor yet?"

His father's eyes grow huge when he realizes what this means. "You know the future."

"It certainly seems so," he agrees, his thoughts running wild. He knows what will happen – to Thorin, Fíli and Kíli; and later to Balin and Óin and Ori. And he has to keep all this dreadful knowledge to himself, nobody can find out. Oh, this is going to be torture.

"We are to meet with Thorin in the Shire two fortnights from now. Gandalf the Grey promised he would find a burglar for us," Glóin explains, eyes squinted. "Do… you know whether we will survive? Whether we will be successful?"

Gimli hesitates. "Aye… I do know. However, I cannot tell you."

His father seems to be about to protest, but his mother nods firmly.

"He is right, Glóin. Until we know more about the situation we cannot risk changing anything." She smiles at him, then motions at the mirror. "It seems to be a given that you have travelled through time, my dear son. Look."

He follows her instruction, taking the few steps that are necessary to carry him towards the slightly opaque piece and looks at his reflexion. At first sight he does not even flinch, for this is how he is supposed to be looking, is it not? This is what he had looked like when he had stepped in front of a mirror the last time, in Mirkwood. His beard is magnificent, still adorned by the braids the elf has woven into it, not knowing what that means to dwarves, and the plaits in his hair are still there as well. His skin is tanned and weather-beaten, there are scars where they should be and none where they should not, and his eyes are dark and grim and wary, as always. They are eyes that have seen war. However; there is also that glint of both hope and excitement that has always shone there.

It takes him a few seconds to realize that, while it certainly feels right, this is not at all what he is supposed to look like.

How is this possible?

What kind of wicked magic is able to send someone into the past?

His mother smiles sadly when she sees the look on his face. "You have seen terrible things," she says, looking into his eyes. "I can tell. What happened? I do not ask for details," she quickly adds.

His expression darkens as he knots his brows. He knows, he can see it in his reflexion. "War," he answers, crisply, and it is all he is going to say on the matter.

His mother's eyes are full of sorrow. "I am sorry," she says.

Gimli forces a smile. "I am well now," he tries to reassure her. "However, I would feel far better if I knew what has come to pass. I cannot recall seeing anything unusual happening… as I believe I should have, were any _normal_ magic involved in this." Magic like Gandalf's.

His father frowns. "You have come into contact with magic?"

"I have been friends with a wizard, and he has told us quite many a tale in lonely nights." In order to drive away the nightmares that were waiting for them the second they would close their eyes, especially for the hobbits. "This must be due to a greater power. Actually… I think there are records of time travels, but none of them resembled the situation I seem to have found myself in."

"Records?" Glóin asks, eyebrows raised.

Gimli knows his face goes blank. "Aye. Elven records." (This is what happens if you stay in Rivendell and call a terribly nosy woodelf your friend. There are not many topics Legolas did _not_ try to research in Lord Elrond's vast libraries when they were waiting for Frodo to recover.) His eyes are daring his father to say anything about elves in general and said woodelf in particular.

The older one hesitates. "And you are sure they are accurate?" His mistrust is clearly audible.

"Very sure. From what I have heard a few elves have travelled through time. Some of them willingly – they were sent back in time by the pooled forces of wizards and elves and could only exist once, never next to their younger self, for they would be returned to their own time the second they were born. They could never stay any longer than a few hours, and had they changed anything, they would probably have destroyed our world, if I understood correctly. Obviously they did not ever attempt to find out – it was used to solve crimes long gone that were still affecting them. Others travelled involuntarily and they woke up in their old bodies, as young as they had been at that time but with memories they should not have. They were sent back to change history, and never returned to the timeline they had come from," Gimli recalls what Gandalf had told them when Frodo had asked whether time travel was possible. Whether they could go back to the point when Isildur had not cast the Ring into the fires of Mount Doom. He also remembers the wizard's answer to the latter question.

_Those who were capable of doing powerful magic like that have long left these shores. Also, we could not risk changing history. Mortals are not meant to temper with time; not even we immortals are. We may be able to alter our own fates, but to alter time is beyond our capability._

Legolas, curious soul that he is, had researched the matter when they had returned to Rivendell after the final battle, finding everything Gandalf had told them to be true.

Glóin nods thoughtfully.

"So how can it be that you have been transported back with your older body? Your young self is no longer here, or he would be in this room. You exist only once, in your true age, but in a time where you already live. Do you think you have been sent here? That you should change something?" His mother looks worried.

He takes a deep breath, smiles at her. "I do not know what has happened," he tries to soothe the woman who bore him, his voice as calm and reassuring as he can manage "but I am sure that we will find out. We will know what to do in due time. And I am still your Gimli, even if I have lived through much more than the son you know. However, my love for you has never dwindled and I shall never stop being your son."

There are tears in her eyes and his father's smile is a little crooked.

"Aye," he says. "You will always be our son."

His mother walks towards him, gently knocks her forehead against his. "Our son," she repeats. "Who has gone through times of great pain and sorrow, and yet you are standing strong – even if I may not know what it is that you have witnessed, I am proud of you. You do seem to be the warrior you always wanted to grow up to be."

"I am," Gimli says and he does feel the pride flowing through his veins then. He is a hero in the time he has come from, and while he might curse the war and all the pain it has brought upon him, it has joined him with the elf and he cannot regret that, never. He would march against the armies of Mordor a thousand times over, trying to buy two little hobbits more time, if it was what was necessary. Because the elf would be marching at his side, and that would give him the strength to do anything.

_Anything_.

Glóin smiles proudly and also knocks his forehead against his son's.

"What are we going to do now?"

Gimli cocks his head and ponders. Oh, if the elf were here – he would know what to do! The dwarf freezes. What- … if the other has not travelled through time with him? What if they are to meet and Legolas no longer recognizes him, being the age he should be? He feels cold fear creep into his bones and his heart stops beating for a second.

There is no way he is going to make it through this strange, trying situation without the elf. Without someone he knows inside out, without someone who has lived through the same hardships, without someone who has survived against all odds and come out stronger as well.

Without Legolas.

His sudden fear must have shown on his face, for it is his mother's hand on his arms that tears him from his dark thoughts. "What is it, dear?"

He supresses the shudder that is threatening to shake his muscles and answers, hesitantly: "I… was just thinking… am I the only one who… was sent back?"

"I see." She nods then, understanding shining in her eyes. "You said you were not travelling alone." Her eyes are far too knowing. "Have you found your One?"

Gimli wants to shake his head, to lie, because nobody can know what he really feels for the elf, never; however – he is well aware that there is no way of keeping things like this from his mother. She will find out, no matter how hard he might try to keep it from her. Mothers always do. "… Aye," he admits, reluctantly. "We… were on our way to Gondor after visiting you, and then his family."

"His. So your partner is male." Her curiosity is only too clearly visible in her eyes and she seems to be hungry for every bit and piece of information.

He flinches upon hearing the word _partner_. "He is."

She pouts when he does not say more and Glóin chuckles softly. "Send him a raven?"

"I will." Gimli smiles and takes a deep breath. That is a good idea. He is going to find out whether _his_ elf is here as well, and until he knows – there is no use in panicking. Forcibly calming himself down he tries to return to the matter at hand. "I cannot change anything," he begins, slowly, "not as long as we do not know why I am here, anyway. And no one can know who I am… However, I would follow you onto the quest for Erebor." He looks at his father, seriously.

Glóin protests.

"I have fought in a war. I am better prepared for this than you are."

"But it would change the time line!"

"I know what is going to happen. You told me every detail." His mother visibly sighs with relief when he confirms that his father will survive the quest. "I will know when to stand back and how to let everything happen. Maybe… maybe I will find out why I am here, and that I am allowed to change things, in time." Before it is too late.

Understanding dawns in his mother's eyes, then. "Not everyone is going to make it."

Uh-oh.

He definitely should take up thinking before opening his mouth – the elf would certainly approve of that kind of development. Gimli looks away and answers before any of them can ask for details. "Maybe." It is as much as a confirmation. "I have already told you too much." His mother is too mindful, too attentive.

"That you have," Glóin agrees, nodding. "We should talk about something else then. So… alright. You can come with me, to Erebor. But how do you plan on keeping your identity a secret?"

The time traveller looks at his parents. "Would anyone but you recognize me like this?"

His mother shakes her head. "Fíli and Kíli maybe," she says. "They know you too well. But none of the others."

Gimli feels the shock run through his veins.

Fíli and Kíli.

His best friends who had left for a grand adventure and never returned.

With everything that has happened in the last few hours; realizing that he has travelled through time, and fearing that he has lost the elf – he has not thought about them. How in Mahal's name is he supposed to cope with seeing them, and knowing what is going to happen?

"We… will have to tell them," he manages to say, somehow. His parents cannot know that the princes will fall. "But Thorin must not know! He will demand answers and I cannot deny my King."

"… _King_," Glóin repeats, slowly, the words heavy in the air. "King under the Mountain."

Oh no. He has said too much – _again._ "Aye." Thorin Oakenshield, King under the Mountain. Even if only for a painfully short time. "Do not tell anyone."

"Of course not." Glóin's voice is filled with dreams and possibilities.

"We will let Fíli and Kíli know. They will not tell on you, I am sure. They are good boys," his mother says. (And Gimli has to agree, they may be rascals, but they are good boys. Just like Merry and Pippin. All four of them tend to run headfirst into battles that are out of their league. The time-traveller manages not to flinch, although he could not say how.) "And we should do it soon. How about that: I bring the two of them here, Glóin organizes weapons and whatever Gimli will need for the quest and Gimli writes his letter."

The two male dwarves only nod and the lady of the house smiles at her son and husband before she leaves the room. "I will also get you a raven," she calls, already halfway out of the door. "Oh, and you will have to think of a new name, and a story. After all you cannot just appear out of thin air." With that she is gone.

Gimli and Glóin share an equally amused and affectionate glance.

"She is right," his father says, after a short moment of silence. "Tell me what you need. Axes?"

"Axes," Gimli confirms. "A big one, like the one you are carrying. Actually… I ruined mine shortly before the war began and fought my battles with yours. We worked well together."

Glóin's smile is caught somewhere between proud and smug. "A fine ax she is," he agrees. "I shall make sure you get a proper one. What else?"

"A few daggers maybe?"

Glóin nods and writes the weapons down onto a small piece of parchment. "Go on."

"What are you going to wear?"

"I was planning on taking a good leather coat with me, but no heavy armour. We are probably going to march a lot."

"I will take a proper armour none the less," Gimli decides. "I have been running across Middle-Earth with the finest suit of Erebor's forges, and it was not exactly light. It should not be a problem. Oh, and a helmet? And spare clothes and underclothes, as well as good boots and a blanket and bedroll."

"You are the one who has to carry it," Glóin says. "I will take care of everything. If you think of anything else, tell me. Now, what about your identity?"

"I would suggest waiting for Fíli and Kíli – I am sure they would love to throw in their creativity."

His father chuckles. "Of course. You know where to find the supplies for your letter?"

Gimli nods (he may not have been here for eighty years, but his memory works fine enough) and then his father is gone as well. He does not take the time to sit down and think since that might give his brain the time to shut down and panic (because what if the elf is _not_ here?). Instead he makes for his old desk and looks for a sheet of parchment, and a quill. It does not take him long to decide on the words he is going to write.

_Khathuzh,_  
><em>After our last count we were at a draw. Want to finally find your master?<em>  
><em>Meneg suilaid,<em>  
><em>Bâhur Azaghâl<em> it says in straight, sharp Angerthas runes.

He seals up the letter, with the signet of his family.

It is one of the many safety measures to ensure that the other really only understands – and will only answer – if he has shared Gimli's fate. The elf will not be able to understand the meaning of the text (although Angerthas were invented by the elves, long ago, Mahal's people had adapted them to their tongue) unless Gimli has already taught him the dwarvish language and script in a distant future, and _Khathuzh_ – the Khuzdul word for Elf – is a name he has always been calling Legolas. For understanding the hint at the 'game' they had been playing when battling having been there is as necessary as it is for knowing the meaning of the last words. His true name, which no one knows but his parents and the elf.

A knock at the door interrupts his thoughts. His mother has returned, a raven on her shoulder and Kíli and Fíli following her like puppies.

"Gimli," Kíli says, "your mother told us you wanted to-"

He falls silent when he sees Gimli stand at the desk and both brothers freeze, like statues, in the centre of the room, a letter clutched in his fingers.

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><p><em>TBC<em>


	2. Marching on the edge of stories brought

So, I'll be updating every Friday... thanks for the reviews!

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><p><strong>2. Marching on the edge of stories brought from far away<strong>

_(The Lord Of The Rings: The Return of the King – Chapter 3: The Muster Of Rohan)_

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><p>The red-haired dwarf's smile is a little pained. "Yes, I wanted to talk to you. However, please give me a second. I need to send off a letter first." Wanting to give them (and himself as well) a little time to compose themselves he holds out his arm to the raven perched on his mother's shoulder while looking at her with raised eyebrows. "How did you get hold of one so quickly?"<p>

The ladydwarf shrugs. "Dáin sent him, and they forgot to reply immediately," she answers, a sly smile on her lips.

Gimli cannot help but laugh.

The princes flinch when they hear the deep sound, so different from the much lighter laughter they are used to.

In the meantime Gimli takes his time to look at the raven, lets his fingers run over the black feathers. "You are a beauty," he murmurs, lowly. By now he knows how to win a raven's heart. The bird looks at him with intelligent eyes, and he smiles. "You are mightily clever, eh? That is very good, because I need a strong, courageous, smart messenger. Do you think you can bring this letter to Legolas Thranduilion of Mirkwood, and to him alone?" His voice is so low that none of the others hears what he is saying. (For while he knows that elves are able to communicate with animals, he cannot be certain that Legolas will understand a raven just the way dwarves do.)

The raven caws proudly and Gimli carries him to the door that leads to a balcony, opens it and – after the sharp claws have closed around the sealed parchment – lets the bird fly.

Then he turns around, finally giving his undivided attention to his old friends (who are so wonderfully alive, but the memory of how he had found them fallen in battle after a long journey does not leave him).

Fíli and Kíli are still speechless, staring at him with wide eyes. They do not look any different from the day they had left for this Mahal forsaken quest, and never returned.

Of course not, Gimli reminds himself, the day of their departure has not yet come!

For a short, tiny moment Gimli allows himself to be carried away by the memories. Remembers travelling to Erebor with the first caravan, eager to meet his friends, only to learn they had fallen in a glorious (he doubts that now that he knows what war is like) battle, along with their uncle. He had been devastated then, not crying for the loss of the King and his heirs, but for the loss of his best friends. (Only Legolas and Aragorn had he been that close to since, afraid that he would lose another one he held that dear.) Seeing them now, alive and well, and knowing that maybe he will not be able to save them-

It is torture.

Fortunately the future has taught him how to hide his emotions when necessary.

He buries the memories of the burials, the graves, the mournful songs, and offers them a wry smile. "I do not think I have ever seen the two of you lost for words."

His mother chuckles and leaves them alone, closing the door on her way out.

For a few moments they stand in silence.

Kíli regains his composure first. He takes a hesitating step towards Gimli, and another one. He circles the older dwarf, who stands proud and motionless, and stops again in front of him, staring into his eyes.

"What were we really doing when you assured uncle Thorin we were out hunting and then talked Dwalin into sh-"

"Shooting a dear for me, so that my story was plausible?" He snickers. "If I recall correctly – and it has been quite some time for me – you were exchanging all of the clothing in your uncle's cupboard for women's clothes you had _borrowed_ from that farmer's girl."

Kíli beams. "It really is him, Fíli!"

The corners of the older one's mouth are twitching. He also takes a step closer, looks into Gimli's eyes like his brother had done. "I believe so, too. He is still there, somewhere. I can still see our young friend in his facial features. However, the eyes…" He shudders, his face serious. "What happened to you?"

The red-haired dwarf knows that the blond prince is not talking about his time travelling, but about the War of the Ring. "I have marched against armies of orcs with elves and men at my side," he answers, slowly. No use mentioning the uruks, they would not know them anyway.

Fíli freezes when he understands. "You… have fought in a war?"

"Aye, I have. And I survived." Unlike you will.

"What… who did you fight against? And did you win?"

Gimli hesitates. "I cannot tell you any details, but… yes. We won – and paid with many lives, of elves and men alike." He tries not to think of Boromir's sacrifice, offering his own life in turn for those of two innocent (as far as Merry and Pippin can be called innocent) hobbits; or of Haldir falling in order to render the retreat possible at Helm's Deep. "It was mere months after we had succeeded, and I was on my way to Gondor with a friend in order to visit one of our… companions, until yesterday. I fell asleep somewhere on the North-South-Road and woke up here," he explains before they can ask.

Kíli's eyes are huge and Fíli, who can almost read his brother's thoughts, chuckles.

"You are his new hero now," he grins and Gimli groans.

"Will you be coming to the quest with us, now that you are old enough?" the youngest asks, almost bouncing with excitement.

"Aye," he smiles. "But – no one can know who I really am!"

"Then why did you tell us?"

"Because you know me better than anyone else, except my parents. You would have found out."

The blonde smiles.

"Uncle-"

"Would not recognize me. He is off and away most of the time," Gimli reminds Kíli quietly. "And… I cannot risk him knowing. He might make me do things that I cannot do in good conscience. And he _would_ make me if he thought it was crucial for his quest."

Fíli nods slowly, understanding. "But… how are you planning to keep your real identity a secret?"

"Well, no one of those accompanying us is going to know that my younger self has vanished. Everybody will be on their way, after all. My mother will take care of questions coming from those who remain here in the meantime. We have no idea how to explain me coming with you, though. Not yet anyway."

Kíli huffs. "So you thought why do the work, we would come up with a story for you anyway?"

Gimli grins mockingly. "But of course."

The dark-haired dwarf rolls his eyes, yet grins as well. "You should know better than to let us plan something like that."

"Oh, I do. You are definitely not going to make the final plan. I merely need your creativity." His grin is a tad dangerous now.

The corners of Fíli's mouths are twitching once again. "You are using us!"

"What else did you expect?"

It is then that Glóin returns, when the princes have just begun to enjoy the repartee.

"I still need to organize you an armour and the axes, but I have got everything else," he says, handing his son a huge bag and a set of razor sharp daggers. "Here. Anything you might need."

"You are going to wear an armour?" Fíli asks disbelievingly.

Gimli nods and takes the daggers. "Aye. I have hunted some uru- … orcs over a great distance, wearing my armour and running after an elf and a man. With their speed of course. They called it 'travelling light', but I think I had a slightly different perception of that." He immediately feels much better, now that he is no longer completely unarmed. Soon most of the daggers have found a place, strapped to his thighs, arms, or on his belt. His repertoire is nothing compared to Fíli's, though.

Kíli snorts.

"You are scary," his older brother jokes and Gimli puts on his best dark face.

"You think this is scary? You should see me in battle!"

"I cannot wait for it," Glóin chips in.

Gimli rolls his eyes. "Do not be hasty," he grins and thinks about peculiar tree herders. "You should not run into battle without a better reason than this." He would. Of course. But that is different.

"Are you a dwarf or one of those weed-eaters?"

"I have seen elves fight. Believe me, crazy as they may be – you do not want them to be your enemies." Yes. Legolas is definitely crazy. But that is fine. Gimli likes him the way he is.

"Are you ill?"

"No. I have fought alongside them. One of my… friends has great skill with the bow. He is deadly."

"I also have great skill with the bow," Kíli pouts.

Gimli raises his eyebrows. "You are good. He is _deadly_," he repeats.

The youngest turns away, sulking.

Fíli snickers. "You are going to be very entertaining."

The warrior's eyebrows rise a little further. "Oh, am I?"

"Aye. Very much so. Now, let us talk about that story."

Being with Fíli and Kíli is easy. Trying not to not to think about the fact that they are _dead_ where he comes from, and that they will die young again if he does not change anything, is _not_.

Actually, the next days are generally hard, and he spends them hiding from everyone but his family and the princes, and joking with them, as if for him no time had passed as well. (They all enjoy those games of words, those verbal exchanges, for now Gimli gives them as good as one gets, far better than so many years ago, he can take it up with the two of them at the same time, and he _enjoys_ that, but all the time he is painfully aware that he might lose them just again.) In the nights he tries to make the hours elapse by sleeping, however, he is not exactly successful, for there is a tall, slender figure hunting his dreams, the most beautiful being in Middle-Earth to his eyes, and _what if he is not here as well?_

It is three days after he has woken up in his old room, in this time that should be long gone, that his mother sneaks through the door, closing it carefully.

"Shh," she whispers when he opens his mouth to ask and mischief is twinkling in her dark eyes. "Your father must not know!"

Gimli raises an eyebrow and the corners of his mouth are twitching.

"Why not?"

"Because I have got _questions_. And he might not like the answers."

What he then sees in those almost black eyes of hers can only be described as curiosity, curiosity of a strength that would have Pippin pale in comparison.

"You still owe me information," she says and her dark glance is a warning. _Don't you dare deny me!_

Gimli, still trying to keep up his blank face, is dangerously close to laughing out loud by now. He has almost forgotten that his mother can be worse a marauder than Fíli and Kíli. Together. "What kind of information?"

"Which family does he come from?" she begins without any introduction. "What are his character traits, how does he treat you, what does he look like, what do you love him for, how did you meet him, how long have you been together, are you-"

He snorts, interrupts her. "Who are you talking about?"

She stares at him, lips puckered. "Do not try to take me for a fool."

_Do not take me for some conjurer of cheap tricks!_, pops up in his mind, tales told by an aged Bilbo in Rivendell and later brought back up by Frodo, and he squashes the memory rigorously.

The snicker fighting to break free finally wins the battle, then. Alright. "Mother," he whispers, conspiratorially. "There… is something I have to confess to you. But only if you promise not to tell father."

"I promise," she answers immediately, eyes gleaming. "I would not have told him anyway."

Gimli fully laughs now, but then grows silent again. He hesitates. "… he is not of dwarvish blood."

His mother does not even bat an eyelid. "I figured that much. Well, of which race is he then? Of men?" She sounds worried, for the short life span of men is no secret.

He winces. "…no."

She sees him flinch and understands. "An _elf_?" Disbelief is clearly written across her face, however, she does not say anything disrespectful, just "I want to know _everything_."

Gimli chuckles, trying to ignore his racing heart as he tries to remember all her questions. "He is of royal blood, and you really can _not_ tell father about that, for he is of Mirkwood."

This piece of information makes her freeze for a second. "Thranduil's kin?" she hisses, squinting her eyes.

"Aye…" he hesitates to continue, but he just cannot let her think that the elf is as bad a creature (in their eyes) as the one who has denied their people the help they would have needed so badly. "However, he is nothing like his father."

"Thranduil's _son_? You must be joking!"

"Be assured that I am completely serious. We fought together, and he is naught but honourable." Gimli's voice is dark. _No one_ will insult his elf without having to face him for it! (Only he himself is allowed to do that, and he knows Legolas will always pay him back in the same coin. And they will both enjoy it.)

A soft smile has found its way to his mother's lips. "Aye, that he must be. Otherwise you would not stand for him like you do." There is a deep fondness in her eyes. "Tell me about him," she demands once more.

Gimli shifts. And smiles. Because he cannot help but smile when he thinks about his elf, even while he is terribly worried that the other one has not come here as well. "His name is Legolas Greenleaf," he begins. "He has _very _blond hair and the most intriguing eyes, as well as the stature and build of them weed-eaters."

His mother huffs and the corners of his lips are twitching.

"We tried to find out who is stronger. It was a tie," he explains, grumbling.

She laughs lightly.

"His sense of humour is very close to the one I share with you and Fíli and Kíli, and his smile is the most honest one an elf can offer." Oh how much would he be ready to do just to be gifted one of those smiles! However, although he wishes for no one to know that, his mother obviously sees it in his eyes for she winks at him.

He actually blushes.

(Blushes! Like a dwarfling!)

_Mothers._

"We are brothers in arms," he quickly continues, "and were mostly insulting each other in the beginning, which, when we got to know each other better, turned into teasing and a deep friendship. We still bicker a lot, but he always knows when to stop and it never is insulting any longer." He is probably looking like a love-struck fool now. Ah, it does not matter. She is his mother. She knows anyway. "We have found that we fight very well together and not really concentrated alone, worrying all the time, although we are both warriors and know that the other can protect himself. He is strong but kind, he always knows what to say and he always manages to make me laugh. Our friendship goes so deep that I have been called _Elvellon_ by his kin. _Elf-friend_."

What he finds in her eyes is the same look she had given him when he had had Legolas meet her, a few weeks ago, in the time that should be. A look that tells him that she will accept anyone who makes him that happy. (And that she is actually a little pleased about his decision, now that she has overcome the surprise. Because she knows that Glóin will have the shock of his life. And she is going to enjoy it. She is wicked. And her husband loves her for it.) Maybe she did wince a tiny little bit when she had heard him use Sindarin, but she had covered it up very well.

In the meantime it seems she has drawn another conclusion, one that has set sadness to the depths of her eyes. "Have you ever told him?"

"No," Gimli answers, honestly. "I would not risk our friendship for anything."

She gently knocks her head against his and then changes the subject. They sit and talk late into the night, enjoying the games of words and teasing they are trading. After all it is her whom he has gotten his crooked humour from.

He falls asleep easily that evening, his dreams confusing and filled with crazy wood-elves, and when he wakes the raven is waiting for him, slightly battered and visibly exhausted, but with a letter in his claws.

Gimli thinks his heart stops.

He is up within a second – startling the bird – and with a few wide steps he crosses the room until he is standing in front of the animal, carefully letting his fingers run over the ruffled feathers. "What happened to you?" he murmurs and pours a little water from the jug on his nightstand into a bowl. "Here. Drink."

While the raven flies towards the nightstand and drinks gratefully Gimli takes the letter, and unseals the wax bearing the well-known signet. Quickly he has unrolled the parchment and his eyes are flying over the dainty elven letters (for he has been taught how to read them, just like he has taught Legolas the Angerthas runes) even as his heart is racing.

_Mellon nín,_  
><em>I am ever glad to hear from you. I already feared I had come here alone.<em>  
><em>What are you planning on doing? I am sure you are aware of what is going to happen.<em>  
><em>Meneg suilaid,<em>  
><em>Calen Iass<em>  
><em>PS: We are only at a tie because you insist on the Mûmakil being worth nothing more than one point, which is very stingy, as I must say. I look forward to proving to you that I can beat you any day.<em>

Gimli cannot supress the soft smile. This is so very much like Legolas.

He reads the letter again, unable to hold back a smile when his eyes rest on the elvish words _Mellon nín_. My friend. The way he is always addressed by the elf, and one of the reasons for him being called _Elvellon_. There is also the name – Calen Iass (the very bad translation of Greenleaf Gimli had once attempted to make and Legolas had adopted) – and the hint at the oliphaunt. (And anyway, that damn animal had been no more than one creature – why should it be worth more than one point? It is certainly not his fault that the elf had needed more than one arrow to get rid of it.)

Hurriedly he grabs another piece of parchment, begins to write.

_Khathuzh,_  
><em>It is a relief to know that you have come with me.<em>  
><em>Yes, I am well aware of what is to happen. You should know that I have chosen to accompany them, but to let the events proceed for now. Will you meet me halfway?<em>  
><em>You would not beat me on your best of days.<em>  
><em>Meneg suilaid,<em>  
><em>Bâhur Azaghâl<em>

He seals the letter and cocks his head, looks at the tired raven.

The bird caws encouragingly.

Gimli smiles. "You really are a strong one, hmm? Can you bring him my answer?"

Another caw.

"Thank you very much. Take your time to rest before you leave."

The raven flies towards him, rips the letter from his fingers and has left the room (through the open door) within seconds.

The dwarf chuckles; sure that the bird will rest outside, in a tree.

His mother pokes her head into the room. "Why was I just almost flown over by an over-motivated raven?" she asks, eyebrows raised.

Gimli snickers, grinning broadly. "It is on its way back, with my answer."

She seems to be almost as excited as he is. "So he got your letter?"

"Aye."

"And he has come through time with you?"

"Aye, he has." He probably has that love-struck-fool-look again.

His mother smiles. "I am glad to hear that," she says. "Did you look through your pack? You will have to leave tomorrow, are you ready?"

It is painfully clear that she does not want to stay back while her men leave. That she would do anything to come with them.

Gimli smiles and rises, leans his forehead against hers. "I did," he confirms. "And father seems to have thought of everything, surprisingly." She huffs. "I am sorry that you have to stay behind because of me and that this time I will not even be here to keep you company."

She smiles as well. "It is a small prize if it is what you need."

The love he feels for his mother almost makes his heart break. "Still. The last time I was with you. This time I will be off and away and you will be alone and have to pretend that my younger self is still here and you will be worrying for both of us… You know that I am a seasoned warrior, but you will worry none the less. And you always worry for father, despite claiming you do not."

She actually blushes. "Aye, I do," she says softly. "But I know that you could not stay here. Not with knowing what you know, and not with your One being an elf, who is waiting for you, out there. And if it makes you happy – it will not be much of an imposition for me."

He hugs her tightly and she buries her head in the crook of his neck.

"You are still my Gimli," she whispers and Gimli's grip tightens.

"And you will always be my mother," he answers, holding back the tears.

He hates farewells.

* * *

><p><em>TBC<em>


	3. To remember old friendship and oaths lon

This chapter features an adorable Bofur, a proud Glóin, a nosy Óin and a disgustingly love-struck Gimli – have fun.

* * *

><p><strong>3. To remember old friendship and oaths long spoken<strong>

_The Lord Of The Rings: The Return of the King – Chapter 3: The Muster Of Rohan_

* * *

><p>The night goes by far too quickly and when morning dawns Gimli and Glóin say goodbye to the ladydwarf of their family, both of them hugging her tightly and gently knocking their foreheads against hers.<p>

Gimli is the one who leaves first, giving his parents a few moments to themselves, and he has not gone far when he hears his father's heavy footsteps as he catches up to him. They walk in comfortable silence and the warrior thinks about Fíli and Kíli, who have left a day earlier. They had wanted to come with him, but he knows that they had reached the Shire earlier than the others the last time. They need to be there before them.

After a few hours of walking they come upon the tavern where Óin is waiting for his brother.

The healer knocks his forehead against Glóin's, a little too hard to be comfortable, and gives Gimli a curt nod. "Who are you?"

It is the first time they have to tell 'the story', as the princes call it. Strictly speaking it is not even a whole story, just a piece of information. If the others do not know too much they will not ask too many questions, supposing he is just in for the gold.

"A cousin of my wife's," Glóin says, and as always when he thinks about her his voice is soft. "Gimin. He heard and chose to come along."

Gimli's face is blank and Óin just nods, shouldering his own pack and looking at them expectantly.

Glóin's lips are twitching. "Impatient as always. Let's get going."

They march on, the two brothers pass the time by talking (which is exhausting, for everything needs to be said twice in order for Óin to understand it) and Gimli is content with listening. His uncle had been old when he had left for Moria together with Balin and Ori and Gimli had always known that – probably – he would never see him again. Finding Balin's tomb had been devastating, and Ori's book-

He does not even dare to think about it. Gandalf reading about Óin's fate, how the Watcher in the Water had taken him, had been sad; terrifying even. However, the time traveller had always been closer to the wise advisor than to the healer, who had spent very little time with him. Both of them had been kin, _family_; still, Balin's death had hurt more.

It makes his stomach churn with guilt, thinking about their passing like this now.

Back then, it had not mattered – both had been gone, and he could miss them all he liked, he was never going to see them again.

Now, however-

Gimli forcibly tears his thoughts away from the depths of Moria, and what he has seen there. It has been a better proof than anything else that his people are too greedy at times. (And it is not such big a surprise that he can see this where most others of his race cannot.)

They have reached the Hills of Evendium and are walking in parallel to the mountain range, heading south, when they run into another group of travelling dwarves.

There are three of them as well and Gimli easily recognizes the one with the hat as Bofur, and the one with an orc axe in his head as Bifur. Thus the third must be Bombur. (He can almost be called _slender_ now, compared to what he knows him to look like in the far future.)

The elder of the two brothers grins broadly, eyes twinkling. "Bofur, at yer service," he says cheerfully and bows. "These're me brother Bombur an' me cousin Bifur."

"At your service," the other two say (Bifur in Khuzdul) and bow as well.

Gimli fights the delighted smile that wants to sneak onto his lips, for he knows Bofur very well (the company had stayed close after reclaiming Erebor, except for those who had left for Moria), the miner had looked after him rather often in that old timeline.

"Gimin, at yours," he answers. They had chosen the name because it is fairly similar to Gimli, and thus easy to correct and most likely that he will listen to it.

He waits for his father and uncle to introduce themselves as well, before he motions for his family to move on.

Glóin complies and so does Óin.

For a second the three others stay frozen, before they hurry to catch up with them.

"Oi! Wait for us!" Bofur calls. "Where're ye goin' anyway?"

"The Shire," Glóin answers crisply and Bofur's beaming smile might have gone around his head. Twice.

"But so're we! Let's travel together!"

Óin rolls his eyes, but Gimli can no longer fight the smile and his father understands.

"Good idea," he agrees. "There is safety in numbers." And before long he has found himself in a deep discussion with Bombur. As both of them have left wives back in the Ered Luin they have no trouble to find topics of conversation.

With twitching lips Gimli listens to his father's moony romancing over how his mother had almost had her forging hammer meet his head when he had begun courting her. However, soon he delves into a heated discussion in Khuzdul with Bifur that turns on the advantages and disadvantages of heavy and light armour. From time to time Bofur chips in (Óin seems to be sulking) and sooner than anyone has expected evening has come.

Bofur finds them a small cave at the bottom of the Emyn Uial and they set up camp, Gimli offering to take first watch. He talks them out of lighting a fire and finds a comfortable position leaning against the wall while the others lie down to sleep. Óin reminds him to wake him for second watch, then loud snoring fills the cave and the time traveller knows that he will have no problems to stay awake. Actually he is not planning to wake any of them, one night without sleep is nothing he cannot handle.

He has had so much worse.

It is probably around midnight when he hears the soft beating of wings before the raven settles on his shoulder, looking a lot better than it had the last time.

Gimli takes his time to stroke it and whispers compliments that make the bird ruffle up its feathers proudly. Only then does he take the parchment from its claws, his free hand still running over the black feathers, and unseal the letter.

_Mellon nín, _  
><em>I shall await you at the skinchanger's place. <em>  
><em>We should trade no further letters, it is too dangerous. <em>  
><em>In your dreams you wish you could beat me! <em>  
><em>Meneg suilaid, <em>  
><em>Calen Iass<em>

Gimli's smile is a little crooked when he folds the parchment and puts it into his pocket, where he also keeps the other message from the elf. He does not like the idea of no contact at all; however, he knows that Legolas is right – it is too dangerous. What if one of their messages is intercepted? And he will see the elf at Beorn's place. Surely he will be able to hold out for that long, for it means that he will have the other at his side when they travel through Mirkwood, and he cannot risk Legolas meeting Azog. He would be too noticeable, and the orcs (and the other dwarves, really) must not know that there is more than hate between the elves and dwarves.

Gimli sighs and gives the raven some of the dried meat he has taken with him, along with some water, before he releases the animal.

"Go back to Dáin Ironfoot, will you? It is probably safest for you."

The bird caws again, lowly, before it takes off and leaves the warrior to his thoughts and the snores of his companions.

Knowing that he will be unable to sleep anyway – especially now, after receiving the letter – he really does not wake Óin when the time for shift change would have come, which has probably been a great idea; for at some point during second watch, in the dead of night when everything is asleep, he hears the sounds he has almost been waiting for. (He is always waiting for them, after hunting and being hunted by whatever the Dark Lord Sauron had to offer for so many nights.) The orcs may be quiet enough not to wake a sleeping dwarf, but still are way too loud for a very awake warrior to miss them. (Not counting Óin – he would have been deaf to their shuffles and growling whispers. It is indeed a good thing that he has not taken over.)

For a second he considers leading them away from the camp and killing them with none of the others knowing, but it is too dangerous. What if some of the foul creatures escape his wrath and attack his sleeping companions? Also, no matter what he might _like_ to think, he is far from invincible. No, he has to take them with him – also, after all, the others are _eager_ to fight.

Sighing he wakes his father.

"There are orcs close," he explains brusquely, whispering. "Wake the others. I will go scout, find out how many and where they are. Keep quiet."

With that he is gone, leaving it to Glóin to wake four sleeping dwarves and inform them about the situation. And while he may not have _the eyes of a hawk and the ears of a fox_, while he may breathe so loud that a bunch of elves _could shoot him in the dark_ – he definitely can keep himself hidden from some orcs.

The memory makes him quirk his lips and imagine what the elf would say, would he see him like this, trying to be as quiet as possible.

He would probably have a laughing fit.

Huffing silently Gimli finds the clearing the orcs are waiting in, obviously gearing up for an ambush. (How have they found their camp? He has made sure that there are no traces, and they have not lit a fire! And yes, he may have become quite paranoid, but he would rather call it necessary caution, thank you very much!)

He circuits them; quick, experienced eyes finding every one of the attackers, and as many weaknesses as a dwarf can see at this meagre lighting. (Which are quite a lot, considering the fact that dwarvish eyes are fitted to see the tiniest shimmer in dark caves and caverns.)

Gimli returns to the camp where the others are already waiting, weapons drawn and slightly pale, but with fire burning in their eyes.

"Thirteen," Gimli whispers crisply. "They were planning to attack us. If we are quick we can take them by surprise. Stay out of each other's way." He knows that they can fight, but Bifur and Óin are the only ones who have ever fought in war and Óin is aging quickly, handicapped by his bad hearing. "Follow me."

None of them protest.

He leads the way towards the glade where the orcs are almost ready to go and they branch out, trying to surround and trap their enemies. There is a sharp whistle (coming from Óin, for he might not hear someone else's signal) and they all lunge at the foul creatures.

The ax Glóin has organized for Gimli – a sister to his own – sings a deadly song as the time-traveller comes upon the orcs like a nightmare, burying the bit in chests and letting it slice through limbs. He fights with the fire of a seasoned warrior burning in his veins and shows no mercy of any kind. Easily he adapts to the quirks of the ax and uses her strengths, making use of the fact that she is so similar to his father's. Out of habit he counts how many of their foes find their death through his ax and within minutes all of them are lying on the floor, not moving any longer.

Slowly the fire leaves Gimli's body, the iron in his flesh turning back into muscles, and now that he sees the blood and the separated limbs he feels the exhaustion come quickly. Mechanically he turns his head, looking for the elf, eager to compare their scores.

Oh no.

Maybe he _should_ sleep more.

The others are beaming at each other, boasting with the number of enemies they have killed (Gimli has counted five, which is almost half of the orcs, but there is no one whom he can bicker over it with, so he pushes it away) and he determines that they can decide what to do with the carcasses while he returns to the camp.

When he is in battle his instincts take over and the bloodlust is as strong as ever; however, before and afterwards he seems to be losing himself, to be losing the person he has once been. Maybe it is because he has seen enough battles to last him for the rest of his life, but he is still a dwarf and dwarves never give up. So he thinks that it is because he is alone, here, in this time where he should be a sixty-two-year-old, not even an adult, instead of a warrior who has seen a cruel war. Because this whole situation is tearing him down, seeing all those people whom he has known to be dead, whom he has _mourned_, and being aware that he might lose them just again. And he needs someone, needs _him_, after all they are a team and one without the other is not nearly as strong as they are together, physically and emotionally.

He sighs, tries to push the thoughts away.

It does not work.

His father finds him back in the cave when his clothes and beard are already clean again, the black orc blood gone, and he is sitting in the same position he had been in before he had realized the orcs' presence.

Glóin drops a heavy hand to his shoulder.

"You fought well," he says, pride clearly audible, and Gimli bows his head in thanks. "You took out almost half of the orcs. You were not lying when you said you were a warrior."

The time-traveller keeps quiet, not telling him about the differences between skirmishes and battles, instead staring at the stone wall of the cave and trying not to think about the slender body that should be sitting next to his, still abuzz with the thrill of battle.

"Aye, ye did get rid of quite a lot of 'em," Bofur, who has just entered the cave, agrees. "And maybe I haven't been trained properly, or Bombur, but we learned by necessity. We're good fighters. Still ye were so much faster." He scratches his head, clearly uncomfortable.

Gimli sighs, and looks at him. "Because I am used to it," is all he says.

"But so're we! We're a wanderin' people, an' we're bein' ambushed fairly often!"

"Yet you travel without worry, or precaution. If necessary you defend yourselves, but otherwise you do not draw your weapons."

"Why would you be any different?" Bombur asks, sitting down heavily.

"I am not from around here." Gimli says.

"He has lived through a war," Glóin chips in. "That is all you need to know. Leave him alone."

"I have not heard about any war," Óin grumbles, brows knotted.

Gimli rolls his eyes. Perfect. "I am not from around here," he repeats.

"I believe we would have heard about a war anywhere else."

He wants to knock his head against the wall. Or his father's, for that matter. "Not if it is far enough." Eighty years, to be precisely.

Óin opens his mouth again, but his brother stops him. "You do not talk about Azanulbizar, either," he says sharply. "Leave him alone."

The healer gives Gimli a long, considering glance, but then he nods and returns to his bedroll.

Bofur, though, does not give up just yet. "But it don't explain how ye could be so much faster than us!"

"Used to it," Gimli repeats, growling, and finally the miner lets it be.

"I am proud of you," Glóin says quietly, when the others are not listening, and squeezes his shoulder. "But I wish I would not have to be."

His son's smile is honest. "I am a dwarf," he reminds his father (and himself). "I am a _fighter_. I just… they cannot know, and… I miss him."

Glóin returns the smile. "Aye. I miss her, too," he says, winking. "But you are right. We are fighters." With that he returns to his bedroll.

Gimli is still staring at the stone wall, but feeling a little better. His father is right. He is not the only one who is missing his beloved. Glóin and Bombur are also separated from theirs', and they are not complaining. However, they are used to everyday life with their wives. Gimli is used to marching to war with his _friend_, and although they are not a couple – as little as Glóin and Bombur could imagine living from day to day without their wives, as little can Gimli imagine fighting without the elf at his side.

"Why're ye lookin' all broody?" Bofur asks, all moustache and dimples.

Gimli coughs. "Old memories," he grumbles. "Go back to sleep."

"But ye already took two watches! Someone else should take the last one!"

"I can take it," the time traveller insists, glad to have his thoughts torn away from the elf (or rather his absence) for a few moments.

Bofur stills, looking at him as seriously as Gimli has only ever once seen him look, when he had come to Erebor with his mother and had found the company three members short. "I believe ye do," he says slowly. "I saw ye fight. None of us here can rival ye. Maybe in skills, but not in experience. I'm sure ye can look out for yerself and know how far ye can push yer body. But that doesn't mean that ye have to. Push yerself, I mean. Not that far. Go to sleep, I'll take the last watch."

Gimli cannot help but smile. "Thank you," he says honestly "but I doubt that I will be able to sleep."

Bofur smiles back – cheerful as always, as he _should_ be – and nods. "Fine. But tomorrow ye're goin' to sleep, or I'll make ye!"

The time traveller snickers. "You will need a hard stone to put me out," he warns and the miner's laughter fills the small cave.

"Aye, perhaps I will. I shall keep lookin' for one," he jokes.

Neither of them sleeps for the rest of that night. Instead they sit together, leaning against the wall and smoking. They spend most of the time in companionable silence, both lost in thought. And although the elf is still far away, on the other side of the Shire and the Misty Mountains, Gimli does no longer feel alone.

Because he knows that Legolas is here, in this time. The Legolas he knows.

It makes him feel much lighter, despite the heavy armour he is wearing.

They rouse the others at dawn and soon they are on the road again, Óin grumbling something about not enough sleep and getting old, Bombur happily munching away at a roll, Glóin staring into the distance and Bifur, Bofur and Gimli once again engaged in a heated discussion.

Well, Gimli ponders, smirking, the elf would be calling it a heated discussion. For dwarves, however, they are acting perfectly restrainedly. No fists thrown, no real insults, no weapons drawn – it is a very civilized conversation indeed. Even if they may be a little loud, yelling and shouting and swearing.

And just _again_ his thoughts are with the elf; however, this time he has the option to really distract himself.

So he does.

And anyway, if Bofur wants to talk he will, there is no way out of it.

Gimli snickers.

They meet other travelling dwarves along the way; however, they are already following the road across the Far Downs and almost have made it to the borders of the Shire when they meet another group heading for Hobbiton.

"Dori of Ri," the oldest introduces himself, pointedly shielding the youngest with his own body. "Those are my brothers Nori and Ori. At your service."

All three of them bow and the others bow back, saying their own names. Gimli does not have to wait for the following conversation in order to know that the number of their group has just increased.

He watches with something rather close to gleeful amusement as Dori tries to keep Ori away from any conversation that has anything to do with either love or fighting. Ori, who he cannot look at without thinking about those bony skeleton fingers and _drums, drums in the deep_.

So he sets to distract himself once again.

Gimli thinks that the elf would probably hit him, but that it would most definitely be worth it, when he strikes up a discussion about the advantages of axes compared to swords when it comes to ridding enemies of their limbs – cutting through bone – and suppresses a sardonic laughing fit when he watches Dori get more and more desperate in his attempts to change the subject. Maybe he is being a little mean here, but young Ori is neither nauseated, nor uninterested, so he keeps going. And anyway, Dori is taking the boy to a mountain with a dragon, for Mahal's sake!

The last settlement before they set foot in the Shire is Undertowns – it is also where they finally buy their ponies.

Óin, Glóin and Gimli agree on getting four mounts, and to use one of them as a pack pony.

The breeder – an unexpectedly open-minded hobbit – is obviously not a stranger to dwarves and sells them good animals for a good price. Gimli thinks he might be a Took. He does know the mischievous grin that makes the halfling's eyes sparkle and lights up his face only too well. Yes, this hobbit will definitely be a relative of Pippin's – and Bilbo's, of course.

He hides a smile, takes his pony and the pack mount, and moves on. The others will follow, he is sure.

The closer they get to Hobbiton the closer Gimli keeps looking for a pointed grey hat. He cannot wait to see his old friend and although he knows the wizard, who is as nosy as Pippin (at least), will give him a hard time the anticipation outweighs the doubts. And, well, nobody has ever claimed that dwarves are patient creatures. At least not compared to elves. So, if the time traveller is walking a little faster, riding a little harder than necessary – who can blame him?

Still they are already way past Waymoor when he finally lays his eyes upon the ragged hat and the old staff for the first time in months. He feels his heart beat faster at the prospect of meeting the meddling old coot again. After all he had been a very dear companion during the quest for the Ring and his death in Moria had shaken them deeply. Seeing him again as Gandalf the Grey, and knowing that he will have less a burden on his mind, fills the time traveller with happiness. The wizard is standing next to a trough and talking to his horse in what probably is an elvish tongue. His old, long fingers are running through his mount's mane and his gaze is lost somewhere, in another place or time.

When he hears them approach he interrupts his quiet dialogue (oh, how often has Gimli watched the elf talk to Arod like that!) and raises his head, gives them one of his mysterious smiles – which instantly makes Gimli nervous. Smiles like this one on the lips of the wizard _always_ do, for as good as a friend Gandalf is, he is still _meddling_ and in his presence you end up doing something you never wanted to do more often than not – and bows his head.

"Good that you are here," he says without any further greeting or an introduction. "Help me with the ponies, will you?" He lets his eyes trail briefly over the nine dwarves and freezes when he sees the time traveller.

Bloody fucking perfect.

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><p><em>TBC<em>


	4. Wizards after all are wizards

Hmph.

Not my favourite chapter.

Hope you like it still.

* * *

><p><strong>4. Wizards after all are wizards<strong>

_The Hobbit, or There and Back Again – Chapter 1: An Unexpected Party_

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><p>Gimli rolls his eyes.<p>

Blasted magic-wielding bugger! Seriously. Does he always have to see and know more than everyone else?

A dark smile on his lips he takes a step forward and reaches for the reins of one of the three ponies the wizard has pointed at.

"Gimin. At your service."

Maybe his voice is a little too dry, and maybe his eyes are a little too challenging, but Gandalf will come question him anyway, so he does not mind if he is making the wizard suspicious. He is way too occupied with keeping all those things he wants to say to his old friend and fellow – brother in arms – back to care for anything else. (_Fly, you fools!_)

So, instead of continuing to watch the wizard, he leads the pony over to his uncle (his father has taken their own fourth mount) and grabs the reins of a second one, watches as Bofur marches towards the third.

"I am ready. Can we get going?"

"Wait a second – who is he again?" Dori interrupts his attempt to tear his thoughts away from the depths of Moria, and Gandalf's from his own person.

Glóin rolls his eyes. "The wizard Thorin Oakenshield found us," he grumbles.

"You mean: The wizard who found Thorin Oakenshield." Gandalf's eyebrows have vanished somewhere underneath the brim of his hat, but he mounts his horse without saying another word, watching as the dwarves follow his example. He then runs his stallion and follows the road to Hobbiton without looking back again to check on them.

Shaking his head amusedly Gimli follows him, the wizard's pony's reins attached to his saddle. He may not be making a fool of himself, trying to ride, like he had with the horsemen, yet there is no way he is going to lead one pony in either hand. One does not have to tempt fate. He gives the second animal a wary side glance, wondering why he has never had many problems with riding ponies, while the Rohirrim's horse had made his life so hard. Probably the elf had bribed Arod into it, he thinks, grinning lopsidedly. He would certainly have the skills to do so.

His thoughts once again with Legolas Gimli leads the procession of nine dwarves, running after a wizard. It is a good thing the hobbits' whispers and glares do not bother him; however, he can tell that not all of the others are as calm about it. Ori is obviously feeling very uncomfortable and Óin's angry muttering is clearly audible.

He huffs.

And forces himself to think about halflings saving the world and kings denying their heritage and wizards meddling with everything and everyone, for he cannot be thinking about Mirkwood elves wielding a bow of the Galadhrim all the time.

And maybe he is looking at Gandalf a tad too often – for the last time he has seen him in grey robes and with the hat he had been falling into fire and darkness – and maybe his thoughts are a little too dark, so dark that the wizard cannot miss his mood, and maybe his attitude is a little too different from the other dwarves'.

However, they do not linger, do not take the time to ask questions, for dusk is approaching quickly and they need to make it to the burglar's house before nightfall. At least if they want to get there in time for the feast.

Gimli's lips are twitching.

_Dwarves_, he thinks, _dwarves and hobbits are not all that unalike._ He pushes away the mental image that follows (a hobbit with a letter opener of a weapon, and a regal dwarf with suddenly more than one dream worth living for, sitting next to each other, watching longingly, yet neither speaking up) and sighs.

He shakes his head then – he will not meddle, that is Gandalf's job – and keeps riding, his body moving along with the pony's automatically.

Thinking about dwarves giving their love to someone of another race also inevitably evokes a certain train of thoughts, one he does not want to deal with yet _again_.

He clenches his fists, finding his grip around the reins iron hard and white-knuckled. It takes all his self-control to loosen it and force his mind onto something else.

They ride in silence and finding distraction is not easy, yet Gimli keeps going, for he knows that later this evening he will be enjoying a great feast, and the hospitality of a hobbit, and the fainting of said hobbit, and an evening filled with so much nostalgia that – maybe – the elf will stay away from his thoughts. They will be occupied with Fíli, Kíli and Thorin, most likely.

And he will get to meet young Bilbo Baggins, the gentlehobbit who has given Durin's folk their home back, and he will make it through the evening, and the night, and the following days, until they reach Beorn's house. And then everything will be better. (He wonders _how_ he is supposed to make it that far, if he is so worn out already. However, he figures, there will be fights and hard-ships as soon as they begin to travel, and maybe it will be enough to occupy his thoughts.)

He realizes, then, that – in a twisted way – he is actually craving battle, for as lost as he may be without the elf – there is nothing to take your mind off things like a nice challenging blood-shedding, and when he is alone with his ax, the enemy and death there is nothing to doubt. Weary he may be, war he might hate – yet a warrior he is with his heart and soul, and in battle everything falls into place again. (He may be going crazy already. _Or_ this might be the dwarvish blood breaking through again, now that the elven influence is missing. _Or_ it is being called a war hero for a reason. But, no – crazy is most likely.)

They finally reach Hobbiton and Gandalf leads them to Bag End, all the while grinning merrily.

Rolling his eyes fondly Gimli racks up the two ponies and follows the others towards the door, watching as Bofur rings the bell.

They hear the complaints even before the door has opened and afterwards they are a little distracted. After all Bombur, of all dwarves, is lying on top of them. As soon as he can breathe again Gimli sets to the task of freeing himself. He actually manages to get out of the pile of dwarves, decides against helping his father do the same, and then enjoys the struggle of the others.

Really. It is decidedly amusing.

He is interrupted, however, when Fíli and Kíli come along, huge grins splitting their faces.

"You are finally here!"

"What took you so long?"

Gimli rolls his eyes. "You left earlier?"

"Well, maybe. But-"

"Two days earlier, to be exact. And we arrived only minutes after you. What took _you_ so long?"

"You know them?" Óin chips in, ear trumpet turned into their direction. "How can you know them if you are from who-knows-where?"

"We met in the Ered Luin, before they left."

"And made fast friends," Kíli beams.

Gimli grins at the brothers and ignores his uncle. Seriously. He is annoying.

Soon they are occupied with preparing dinner and, filled with curiosity, amusement and quite a lot of fond memories, watching the hobbit freak out. It is easy for Gimli to imagine Sam being the one running around, trying to stop the natural force a dozen dwarves can be. Yes, it would definitely be Sam, he had been the most respectable hobbit. Frodo would be enjoying Gandalf's presence way too much (and he had been under Bilbo's influence for too long), and Merry and Pippin? They would already be plotting stupid pranks together with Fíli and Kíli.

Thinking about his young halfling friends, and what they will have to endure, turns his thoughts back to his time-travel, and the reason for it. There is nothing he wants to do more than change the course of history – he would even agree to spend the rest of his life without the elf, if only to save so many people so much pain.

He forcefully tears his thoughts away from what the war – and the Ring – will do to his fellows, his friends, and tries to concentrate on the task at hand.

Namely: Prepare the feast.

And make Bilbo freak out.

Which is almost too amusing. He knows what will become of the hobbit – a true adventurer and a hobbit more courageous and devoted than many a dwarf or elf – but right now he is being ridiculous. (Maybe Gimli can understand him. But just maybe. And just a little bit. And anyway, this _is_ rather entertaining.)

He helps carry the table, and empty the pantry, and set up the plates, the corners of his mouth twitching all the while. For the first time in ages it is easy to banish the elf to the back of his mind. Yes, probably what he really needs is simply a good and proper distraction – which does not necessarily have to be a nice cruel battle. (After all, then he may have to concentrate, yet he still spends way too much time looking for a swirl of blond hair out of habit.)

Soon they are eating, scandalizing the hobbit (way to go, Gandalf – a dwarven party is the perfect way to convince a worryingly polite and _respectable_ Shireling of leaving his hole) and having a wonderful time. Gimli has to admit, Bilbo Baggins' taste for food is indeed nothing to sneeze at.

He also enjoys the singing and 'cleaning up' that follows, spending his time with throwing particularly difficult tosses at his two royal friends. All of them are having a great time, it feels as if it has been ages since he has been so free.

However, the mood dampens immediately when the King turns up.

Thorin, being his usual broody self (Gimli had never known him any different, although he had certainly idealized him after his death), is all grunting and talking about serious stuff. Way too gravely. (And majestically, of course.) Gimli supresses a sigh and tries his best not to think about a beautifully ornate sarcophagus, mournful songs resounding in wide halls and a kingly burial. This Thorin, sitting before him… is not King under the Mountain, the warrior the dwarves of Erebor had never stopped singing about. Yet he is also no longer his uncle (of course their relation is more complicated than that, but no one had ever cared – not before the signs had turned up), no longer the uncle of his best friends. The royal blood is boiling in his veins, and with every mile they come closer to the Lonely Mountain, to his lost kingdom, it will be stronger.

Gimli cannot help but wonder what Fíli and Kíli will say when they lose their family member bit by bit.

He tries to concentrate on Thorin's words instead. On the hobbit's curious glances at the map. The map that excites everyone but him – and Gandalf. And the wizard is _staring_. Again. Oh, he cannot wait for that conversation!

Just perfect.

Distantly he wonders when he has become so sarcastic. (The question is easily answered. Like so much in his life it has to do with a certain elf.)

Dori asks Gandalf for a number – How many dragons have you killed? – and the others begin to quarrel, until Thorin silences them, gives them a speech. The royal blood is breaking through yet again. Thorin Oakenshield has been born a charismatic person, and the rhetorical education he, grandson of the King, has had is showing. It was Balin's, after all.

Fíli and Kíli are staring at their uncle with wide, admiring eyes, absorbing every glance, every kingly gesture.

Do they not see what they will be losing?

The time-traveller wishes he could be exchanging looks with the princes, but they are concentrating on the king, hanging on his every word, only too excited to reclaim _their_ kingdom and eager to prove themselves.

Gimli shakes his head.

Did he also behave like that?

(Of course he did, still he chooses to ignore it.)

He watches the others fight yet again and Gandalf grow all dark and tall and scary. The time traveller cannot keep his thoughts from wandering, conjuring up memories of a different time. _I would die before I see the Ring in the hands of an elf! No one trusts an elf!_

The halfling fainting brings him back into the present time.

Really.

Those Shirelings are decidedly amusing creatures.

While Gandalf looks after Bilbo he forces his thoughts to stay away from two battered, unconscious hobbits, motionless in the claws of huge eagles, and a sluggishly bleeding finger. Instead he watches the others. Thorin, who is still talking. Ori, who seems to be growing in confidence with every sentence, and Dwalin, who cannot wait to fight for his home. Bofur, who actually manages to keep quiet (which is a small miracle) for the time being, Bombur, who is still eating, and Bifur, whose fingers are twitching. There is a fire burning in Nori's eyes as he thinks of all the gold, the vast treasure, and Dori's are swaying to and fro, uncertain whether to watch his leader or his youngest brother. Óin is listening intently, his own father is excited, and Balin seems to be tired, despite his constant little smile. Fíli and Kíli are filled with anticipation.

In the end Bilbo, who Gandalf has brought back into consciousness, says that he cannot come with them and the others seem to falter. For all they are doubting the hobbit's abilities, they still need a burglar and if the wizard says he can do it…

… the wizard.

Gimli has almost forgotten about the talk. And when he remembers it is already too late, for Gandalf has managed to corner him in an empty chamber. He hears the others sing in the sitting room and grits his teeth, knowing that there is no escape.

Great.

Gandalf closes the door of the guest-bedroom and tries to stare the dwarf down.

Frustrated, Gimli has to admit that – no matter how often he may have been in that position already – it is still working.

The wizard raises an eyebrow, obviously waiting for him to say something, and Gimli leans back, against a wall, stubbornly crossing his arms as he lets his expression flow into a blank mask. If the wizard wants to do it his way, then there is no chance the time-traveller is going to make it any easier for him. Gandalf will find out more than he should anyway, he might as well have a hard time doing it. (The dwarf realizes that he may have to write another letter to the elf after that conversation, despite their agreement not to. Oh bother.)

Gandalf's eyebrows are twitching now, and his eyes are dark. Threatening.

The burning eye of Sauron had been worse.

This time Gimli manages to hold his gaze and in the end it is the wizard who gives in. The old man sighs, unnerved, yet a little impressed at the same time.

"There are not many who do not look away the first time I try to stare them down," he says, the corners of his mouth twitching. "Unless… this is not the first time. Although I cannot remember ever having met you, you do seem oddly familiar to me."

Gimli rolls his eyes. "How many blasted senses do you Istari have?"

"More than you mortals, I assume," Gandalf answers, his eyebrows having vanished somewhere beneath the brim of his hat.

The dwarf thinks about the Lord of Rivendell and finds himself unable to suppress a huff.

This time the wizard is the one to roll his eyes. "I am rather sure that you already know what I was about to ask, so would you just tell me?"

Gimli grins. "Definitely not! Where would be the fun in that?"

Gandalf sighs again. Scrutinizes him. "There is an odd magic about you. One I cannot quite identify," he finally says.

"Oh no. I was actually hoping you could tell me the reason for this…"

"The reason for what?"

"I am convinced you already have an idea, whether you tell me or not."

Gandalf's eyelids are twitching. "You think so?"

"You always do."

"You seem to know me rather well."

"Maybe." Gimli has to admit, this _is_ rather amusing. Gandalf will find out _some things_ either way, thus there is no reason not to have a little bit of fun.

Gandalf shakes his head. "I would have you tell me whether you come from the past of from the future, and whether you have come alone."

Gimli feels his face run blank. "I will only tell you if you swear to me not to take any information I do not give you freely by force."

"Why would I do that?" The wizard sounds hurt.

"Because you cannot help but meddle, and if you think what I know will help you save the world or whatever it is you are usually doing… there will not be much that can stop you. Also, while you would certainly try to do the right thing, you still might choose wrongly – and your mistakes weigh more heavily than others' I assume."

Gandalf drops his shoulders. "I suppose you are right," he admits, quietly, sounding old and defeated. "Hereby I swear not to take anything you are not willing to give from you,…"

"Gimli, son of Glóin."

For a second the wizard is surprised, but regains his composure quickly. "… Gimli, son of Glóin, be it items or information."

The time traveller can feel the magic behind the oath manifest in the form of a draught and nods, satisfied. "Great. As you have – apparently – already guessed, I have come from the future, almost eighty years from now. I have met you there during… a _quest_." Gandalf squints his eyes; however, Gimli does not give him enough time to ask. "Quite obviously I have been sent back into a time where I already exist, but with my old body, while my younger self has vanished. This, to my knowledge, has never happened before. Unfortunately I cannot tell you anything about what has brought me here, since I do not know, but – as you yourself have told me once – there are no longer any elves in Middle-Earth powerful enough to send a being back in time, and not even Saruman could do it. Thus I assume this is some godly plan… whether it is a prank or the attempt to right some wrongs I cannot say."

The wizard frowns. "… to right some wrongs," he says, slowly. "What wrongs?"

"There is no way I am going to tell you that. Not at this point, anyway. However… I was hoping you could tell me the reason for my time-travel. Whether I am here to watch… or to change the course of history."

Gandalf sighs. "I am afraid I cannot tell you that, my lad. Not yet."

_Lad_. Gimli squints his eyes, but answers anyway. "Of course. Perhaps you could ask the Lady Galadriel?"

The old man gives him a surprised look and the corners of Gimli's mouth are twitching. Maybe, after this is over… maybe he can get his three strands of golden hair back, which he has left in that time he has been torn from. He has always thought of them as a good-luck charm, and of a keepsake. After all it was in Lórien that he and Legolas finally grew closer.

"If I find the time to do so. However, until then you must not-"

"-change anything, I know." The dwarf rolls his eyes. "I figured that much."

Gandalf nods, slowly. "Fine." He cocks his head, stares at the wall. Looks at Gimli. Looks away, stares him down again. "Did you… come here alone?"

"That I do not know," the younger one lies without batting an eyelid. There is no way he will have the elf dragged into this.

"Well. Then I guess there is nothing more to talk about. I assume you know enough about what is going to happen to keep out when it is necessary?"

"I do."

Gandalf nods again. "We are done here, then. I shall tell you if I gain any information about your situation. For now – you should sleep."

Gimli only nods and rises, leaves the guest room and his old friend behind. He makes for the living room, where he finds Fíli and Kíli curled up in front of the fire place. Deciding that he can at least try to get some rest he signs his own contract, hands it to Balin, and then lies down next to the princes, axes as always ready to be drawn. He knows that, should it be necessary, he will defend the princes and his King with his life. If he is allowed to so. He only needs to make sure that the elf survives and takes care of the Ring, or rather the destruction of it. The elf could do it, even with him gone, he is sure.

Yes, Gimli feels confident about that. He is less afraid of death than of being condemned to watch, and do nothing. Although… waiting in the halls, for the elf to join him in afterlife, knowing that he could not be a part of Legolas' days-

Unsurprisingly, sleep eludes him that night yet again.

* * *

><p><em>TBC<em>


	5. Far-off memories of a journey long befor

Gimli is being silly.

Can't he do what _I_ want? =.=

* * *

><p><strong>5. Far-off memories of a journey long before<strong>

_The Lord Of The Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring – Chapter 4: A Journey in the Dark _

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><p>When the others rise, early the next morning, Gimli has already prepared the ponies and breakfast. Quietly – as not to wake their host – they eat, clean up the mess they have made in the hobbit hole, and leave.<p>

Gimli does not fail to notice the sparkle in Gandalf's eyes when he darts the contract on the table a quick glance.

Oh, the old meddler! Bloody wizard!

Gimli is not entirely convinced that the Istari is _not_ involved in _everything_ that might seem like a coincidence on first sight. Not when it is related to Thorin Oakenshield's quest for his home mountain. (Or a certain hobbit's quest for Mount Doom.)

Before long they have left the Shire and are following the East-West-Road, towards the Misty Mountains.

After the first few minutes of riding quietly, glumly even (except for Bofur), the betting begins.

_Of course_, Gimli thinks, grinning, and puts his money on the hobbit turning up. He can take a little advantage of knowing what is going to happen, at least in that situation. Watching him from the corners of their eyes Fíli, Kíli and Glóin follow his example. Gandalf has already done the same, as always sure that his ideas will work. Óin cocks his head and then shrugs, nodding. He is always one to take the odds.

"I say he comes," he announces.

All the others choose to bet on the opposite (even Thorin is in it) and Gimli is already rubbing his hands. Mentally, of course. Six to eight – not much, but as some of the others have anted up larger sums it will be more than good enough.

Thus he finds himself unable to suppress the smug grin when Bilbo comes running, the contract in his hand and a pack on his back, yelling for them to wait.

Balin makes sure that the signature is correct and then the money comes flying.

Gimli shares an amused look with his two princeling friends and for the rest of the day the mood is much better.

When he offers to take first watch, however, he meets with unexpected resistance.

"I was bein' completely serious when I said I'd make ye sleep," Bofur warns. "I won't watch ye exhaust yerself. We're in this as much as ye're, and there's no way ye'll be carryin' more of a burden than the rest of us."

Gimli hearts swells with his love for this one dwarf he had considered his uncle as much as Balin, or Óin.

Thorin raises an eyebrow, nodding, but does not say anything. Instead he keeps staring into the darkness and looking out for whatever threat may linger in the shadows. He may be in a dark mood more often than not, but he surely cares for every person under his care. When they hear the first orc cry (of course Gimli is not sleeping, he is far too occupied with watching his companions and all their quirks) he flinches visibly, although apart from Balin and Gimli no one seems to notice.

Balin.

The name alone makes the time traveller shudder. Seeing him again, old but still strong and so wonderfully _alive_ – it is as upsetting as watching Fíli and Kíli with knowing their fate. His blood still runs cold when he thinks about those dark nights underneath the Misty Mountains, about being caught in the mines that had taken the lives of so many dwarves. About wandering through those beautiful dwarven halls, halls his kin had paid for with blood so often already, knowing that it was a _tomb _he was sleeping in, as Boromir had so kindly pointed out.

The grave of people he might have known, once, in what had seemed like a bygone time.

He should have felt at home there, in those halls built to be a home for his people. Boromir, however, had spoken those not exactly kind words it in the very beginning and they had never left his head.

A tomb.

And one they had been trapped in.

Surprisingly it had been the elf who had been trying to calm him, instead of the other way round. The Firstborn are not made to dwell underground, they grow restless and nervous after only very little time. Still Legolas had taken it upon himself to look after Gimli, being the only one who had noticed the way the dwarf had reacted to the mines – the way he had almost physically_ felt _the death lingering inside those walls. Despite that, though, despite everything Gimli had kept hoping, praying, that he would find Balin alive, strong, still fighting-

Standing in front of his sarcophagus… He had almost been relieved when Pippin, in all his Tookish glory, had managed to alert the enemy to their presence. The need to fight had torn him from the paralysing numbness the unexpected death of his dear uncle had caused.

With all his might Gimli pushes that feeling he remembers only too well (he had had to deal with it again after Gandalf had fallen prey to the greediness of his own kin, and after they had lost Boromir to the man's own conscience) away when he hears Thorin reprimand his sistersons. He watches as their leader stomps off and listens to Balin telling them the reason for his overreaction.

It strikes Gimli as odd that not even Fíli and Kíli know what had really happened at Azanulbizar, though he does remember that he had not known as well. His uncle had finally told him after they had returned to Erebor. Mourning their fallen king many a song had sounded in the Lonely Mountain's halls and he had not understood everything they had sung about.

Back then, he had finally been told the details.

Of course he had known everything about Thorin's exceptional courage and the Oakenshield; however, everything else no one had ever talked about – the countless fallen soldiers, or those whose lives had been ruined. The fact that Frerin, Thorin's brother, had been among those lost before Moria's gates, as well as Fundin, the father of Balin and Dwalin. Along with Náin; and Thráin, who had disappeared and was not heard of again.

Balin's tale that evening may be a little embellished, but it is still much more accurate than anything Gimli would have been told at that age. However, there are still parts missing.

Still nothing is said about Frerin, or Fundin, or the fact that the corpses were burned afterwards instead of being entombed in sarcophagi worthy of a death in battle, underneath a homely mountain. Gimli does not even dare to think about what it must mean to lose your father and not even be able to grant him a proper burial.

Shaking his head he tries to think about something else.

He is not sure whether he should be surprised or annoyed that Balin has skipped the cruellest parts… they should not know, of course, Fíli, Kíli and Ori are still so innocent, so young. And yet, they are on a quest that will cost two of those three their lives.

They should be ready.

Still, none of them even fear that the end could be that disastrous, except for Balin and Gandalf maybe. Closing his eyes he repeats what Thorin has said.

_Perhaps the vast worth of our people now lies unprotected. _

That is what they all hope for. What they all_ expect. _After all, the portents say that the reign of the beast will end, now that the birds of old have been seen returning to the mountain. They believe that they will simply waltz in and take the Arkenstone out from under an already dead dragon's claws.

They also believe that everyone else in Middle-Earth will let them take what is rightfully theirs.

Well. Probably Dwalin does not think that either, and Óin. Balin. Thorin. The others, however, are fully unaware of what might be awaiting them. And Gimli thinks that it would be Thorin's responsibility to warn every single member of this company – with more than the stilted words of a too-long contract no one but a scholar or a fussy hobbit will read fully.

Tiredly he thinks about_ There is one I could call king!_ and finds himself unable to suppress a shudder. Gimli Glóin's son is nothing if not loyal, also – or rather especially – to Thorin Oakenshield, and his quest. He has travelled through time, and still is ready to die for Erebor.

At the latest from Balin's speech on the others have pledged their hearts and allegiance to him as well.

Looking around the warrior sees the impact Balin's words have had on his companions. They all seem to be looking at their leader with endless admiration in their eyes – all but Balin and Dwalin, who have always been loyal beyond all bounds to the one they would follow into any battle, just like he would follow Aragorn (or the elf).

Gimli only wishes Thorin were not so convinced that Azog is gone. That he were aware that they are already being hunted. That he were worrying not only about the dragon, but also about their path there.

And that the others could see that Durin's heir is not invincible.

Sleep – predictably – eludes him for the rest of that night as well and he very much regrets that when the next days are drowned in a constant downpour. Getting a proper night's sleep is close to impossible with the ground swimming, even for a group of travellers who are used to spending day and night in the open. He almost wishes he were back on the way towards Isengard, trying to outrun a group of uruks. There had not been any time for sleeping, he had been caught between exhaustion and hopelessness, but at least it had been _dry_.

Suddenly Gimli feels so very old, thinking about the War of the Ring, and all the hardships that had come with it. He feels old and worn and tired. Like he has already seen too much, and watching his friends die before his very eyes, knowing in advance and being unable to prevent it, is going to break him.

Oh, what would he give for the elf to be here to chase away those dark thoughts!

Wearily he listens to conversations about great and not so great wizards and tries to let himself be distracted, but most of the time his thoughts are trapped in another thunderstorm; in another soaking wet armour and a battle for the survival of Rohan.

Suddenly, though, the sky clears up again and when they stop to spend the night in a gutted farmhouse he knows a distraction has come, and more will be following quickly.

With raised eyebrows he watches as Gandalf stomps off, the corners of his mouth twitching. The man does have a bad temper, but having to interact with stubborn elves, eccentric wizards, stupid men and now even thick-headed dwarfs regularly cannot leave one patient, can it? Grinning he waits for the night, knowing that the wizard will be back in time to help them.

And that the distraction will be there before he loses himself in those dark memories that are haunting him yet again.

He does not understand why his past hardships suddenly hit him so much harder than they had before. Maybe it is because the elf is not here. Maybe it is because he is surrounded by people he knows are going to die. And maybe… it is because what has worn him out has not even happened yet, and he will probably have to let it happen despite his better knowledge.

He had not thought himself to be that dependent on the Legolas' presence (and friendship, and appreciation, and_ lov-_), but he guesses that this is what it means that the elf is his One. Gimli can count himself lucky that his other half has even travelled through time with him.

_Well. _

Maybe his love is the reason for Legolas having been pulled along. Maybe their bond – one of friendship as it may be – is _that_ strong.

Gimli likes the idea.

Probably the distraction already waiting to happen really is even more necessary than welcome.

The encounter with the trolls actually turns out to be quite amusing for Gimli, with knowing how everything will end. As soon as Bilbo has left with Fíli and Kíli's servings of Bombur's stew he has his ax ready, waiting for his two princely friends to return – and confess that they have lost some of the ponies. Along with their burglar. To mountain trolls. It is ridiculous, really. Well, at least for the time traveller who avoids the brothers' gaze when they come sneaking towards the old farmhouse, their eyes pleading him to understand and help them. They – obviously – have drawn the (right) conclusion that Gimli must know what has happened. To their horror, however, the time traveller decides against helping them out of this situation. After all, where would the fun be in that?

Very amused he listens as they admit what has happened to their uncle, who looks torn between scolding them and running to help Bilbo. Kíli, though, does not wait for him to make a decision, which could – at this point – easily be the wrong one. He turns on his heels and runs back the way he and his brother have just come. The prince seems to be the only one realizing that they have left a hobbit – and one whose abilities all of them doubt at that – to the mercy of three monstrous mountain trolls.

In the end it is Gimli who shakes his head, mutters some well-chosen (and not meant for others' ears) words into his beard and stomps after Kíli. His ax at the ready he darts Thorin a challenging glance, which he might as well regret later, and makes for the direction the prince has taken. Not wanting to stay behind their leader stomps after him, and everybody else follows them. Gimli, who hears their loud footsteps in his wake – he allows himself to think about what Haldir's reaction would be – snickers as he rushes after his young friend.

The others have closed the lines when they reach the clearing, just in time to watch the trolls throw Bilbo towards where Kíli is standing and both tumble towards the ground.

Seeing this Thorin suddenly is the first one to charge.

With an old dwarven war cry on his lips he rushes into the clearing, sword drawn, and immediately starts to divert the trolls' attention away from his currently helpless sisterson, burying the blade in the nearest leg with a strength that only a dwarf who is used to fighting for his life can muster.

"Khazad aî-menu," Gimli roars in memory of countless battles for Middle-Earth and charges as well, knowing that ultimately he will have to hold back and let everything happen the way it is supposed to. However, it is simply not an option to let Thorin realize that he is not about to make a change. He just cannot meddle with time before he knows whether he is allowed to, and his king would make him. He has fought in a cruel war, trying to save the world – he will not sacrifice it by making a mistake that might destroy everything existing. Besides, one dwarf more or less means not much to three trolls, not if said dwarf has to watch out for his companions as much as for his enemies.

The group is unorganized still, impeding each other more than helping.

Thus Gimli busies himself with trying to shield Ori as well as he manages to in this situation, and giving Bilbo the chance to make his ways towards the ponies, and observing his companions.

It is what gives him the chance to see the formerly lose group suddenly grow together, just like that. Before… there had been the close families sticking together, brothers and cousins. They were there for each other, but not for anyone else. Now, however – it is all for each and each for all. Incidentally trying to shield Ori a little from the trolls' wrath Gimli admires the way those dwarves who mean so much to him – they are his heroes and his family – are fighting hand in hand now, having changed their attitudes within seconds.

Distractedly the time traveller defends himself, avoiding a troll foot here and a huge squashing hand there. He concentrates on cataloguing each of his companions' fighting styles and filing them away, wanting to know who he can rely on in which situation. Clearly does he remember the way his own company, the Fellowship, had grown together until they knew each other blindly, and were able to fight in any constellation. He can see it already, it will not be long until this company will have knitted their lives, fates and skills together as tightly as his own had.

Gimli absently realizes – he is busy thrusting his ax into a calf, and evading the answering kick – that somewhere, deep down, there is a strange pain that comes upon him when he thinks of not really belonging to this group. Of course he is not truly alone, after all his father is here, and his princeling friends never let him forget their presence... and still, he suddenly feels so very out of place. He should not be here, has no place among those dwarves… has no place in this time. Swiftly as always his thoughts return to the elf, and the ache in his heart increases. He tries to imagine what Legolas will be doing at the moment, whether he has told anyone, whether he is feeling alone as well-

Suddenly there is a poorly made knife pointing at his face, and the world comes rushing back.

Instantly he kicks into survival mode again, nimbler than anyone would expect of a dwarf dodging the blow and drawing one of the daggers his father has given to him in order to bury it up to the hilt in thick skin and fat and muscle, at hip height. The troll howls with pain.

Gimli, in the meantime, is _fuming. _

There is no way he can allow anything, especially not silly thoughts about the elf and the Fellowship, to distract him from a fight just like that; and the burning anger with himself, and Mahal, and_ fate _is enough to keep him focused.

Because having his attention diverted like before is simply not an option.

At the moment, however, he is occupied with raging.

Unfortunately he has to realize that pulling the dagger out of the troll's leg is not as easy as he had expected. For a few moments the time traveller makes a fool of himself chasing after a hilt sticking in thick skin and fat. He hears Fíli snicker in the background. A bold jump makes it possible for him to wrap the fingers of his free hand around the cool metal, but now he is dangling from a troll's hip, desperately clinging to his weapon.

Fíli is no longer the only one snickering.

Angrily he manages to put his ax away, securing it in the sheath on his back. Wrapping both hands around the restive hilt he now stems his sturdy feet against the thick thigh beneath them; a manoeuvre that reminds him dangerously of the elf killing that oliphaunt, but much less elegant.

He pulls again, pushing his body away with all the strength in his feet and with a sickly slurping sound the dagger suddenly becomes unfastened and Gimli drops to the ground.

Glóin is laughing aloud now.

It is a good thing, the warrior thinks, that his beard is so thick that the blush creeping up his cheeks is nearly undetectable. He bobs up, draws his ax again and immediately charges, having put the bloody dagger back into its sheath at his belt.

For the first time since he has woken up in this _wrong _time he is glad that the elf is not here. He would never hear the end of it.

Roaring he draws the bit of his ax through another leg, watching as the sharp blade cuts through the tissue easily. This is definitely a better position, so he does it again. And again, and again. At the same time he lets his attention slip once more – on purpose, this time, for he is still trying to absorb the others' fighting styles in order to adapt his own.

Smiling absent-mindedly he registers Ori aiming at a troll who has lifted Nori, and sees Dwalin roll after a blow, only to stay on the floor and offer Glóin the chance to jump higher than he could have alone. He also sees the way his father does not hesitate to do so.

Yes, the others are working with each other now, instead of next to each other. There is nothing like a nice battle to knit a scratch group together, aye? The company is doing so, and impressively well at that. Gimli watches how the war veterans easily include those who are not used to fighting together, working them into the dynamics and embedding them in the structure. Gimli is having a hard time trying to withstand the pull. Oh, he would love to be a part! However, he cannot tune in yet, he has to keep track of everything happening around him, or he might do something that could ruin_ everything. _

Suddenly there is a hobbit dangling from huge troll hands and Thorin is the first to throw away his sword in order to save a tiny halfling's life. Somehow, Gimli is proud at that, and he thinks that he, and the elf, and Gandalf, and Aragorn, and Boromir – that they would have done the same for _their_ hobbits.

* * *

><p><em>TBC<em>


	6. We train and we teach, we walk and we we

So, I can't watch Bilbo wave his little sword about with no instructions whatsoever, while all those dwarves - half of whom have had proper training - watch and do nothing.

Neither can Gimli.

* * *

><p><strong>6. We train and we teach, we walk and we weed<strong>

_The Lord Of The Rings: The Two Towers – Chapter 3: The Uruk-Hai_

* * *

><p>Soon he is distracted, though (and it is scary how much he is dwelling on the past now, he never used to do that; however, with all those parallels…), by being relieved of his armour, and the daggers at his belt, and his pack, being put into a mahaldamn <em>sack<em> instead. It itches, and he feels naked, vulnerable. Desperately he wishes he could move his hands, if only to scratch his toe where the itch is throwing a party. However, there is no way for him to reach his foot. Still, he supposes he is in a better position than some of the others. To be precise: Those who are bound to a stick, being turned above the hot flames of the cooking fire; and all of them are afraid that they are actually going to be eaten.

That this is it.

That their journey, their dreams, their _lives_ end here.

Yes, Gimli has to admit, a little itching is nothing compared to fear of dying. At least he knows that a small, quick-witted hobbit and a blasted meddling wizard will throw their abilities together just in time to save the day. And, well, somehow the time traveller even enjoys the situation. Apart from the itching, of course. After all, who ever gets the chance to see the so majestic dwarven king in such an unmajestic manner?

Suppressing a snicker Gimli observes as Bilbo sets to distract the trolls. Apart from Thorin none of his companions realize what he is doing – stalling – and the time-traveller knows only too well, before he had gone on his own quest he would have been one of those protesting the loudest.

Smiling he watches Gandalf blow up the stone behind which the sun is rising; turning the trolls into the stone statues Sam had mentioned so often when talking to Frodo, while wandering across Middle-Earth's endless landscapes, or in the evenings around the fire. Whenever the ringbearer had lost faith his young gardener had reminded him that his uncle Bilbo's adventure had ended well (more or less), and that they, too would return home some day.

Admiring the trolls he himself had never seen – the hobbits and Aragorn had come upon them before reaching Rivendell – Gimli watches from the corners of his eyes as Thorin and Gandalf bicker yet again.

Were it not for moments like this one (or moments like "_You shall not pass!_" and flaming whips from the depths of this world) it is easy to forget that the wizard is more than just a meddling old coot.

The time-traveller smiles affectionately.

He has not been aware of how much he has been missing Gandalf in the months since Aragorn's coronation.

His armour back in place Gimli follows the wizard and his future king into the troll hoard, finding himself unable to keep from accompanying them. With sparkling eyes he watches as Thorin lays his eyes upon Orcrist for the first time, and as Gandalf stumbles upon the blade to be called Sting. The sword – so meaningless and unknown now – will be famous in the time he comes from, known for its great deeds it has done in war, as Balin would put it. It could have carried a much greater name after the War of the Ring.

However, Gimli thinks, it is a hobbit's blade, having done those deeds wielded by a hobbit's hand. _Sting_ is just perfect.

Smiling slightly he carefully takes the blade from Bilbo's shaking fingers. "Come," he grumbles. "Let me show you a few things so that you do not hurt yourself instead of the enemy."

The hobbit draws an indignant breath, but deflates before he has even opened his mouth. "You are probably right, that would be better," he relents, sighing. "Up against orcs and a dragon I will not get far with my conkers, I suppose."

Gimli snorts. "Aye, probably not," he easily agrees, thinking about different hobbits who had also believed in the best possible outcome until the end. Leading his companion a few feet away from where the others are resting he contemplates on how gruff he carries himself, although he is the one to call Thorin a mood-killer.

Well.

This is probably the difference between being a warrior, and a scholar, toymaker or merchant. Surely, his people are not as sensitive as hobbits or elves, and they most definitely do not want to be. The rougher manners are part of their culture, of being a dwarf. Gimli has learned a lot about the way the halflings like to live, as well as the _Quendi_ and men; more than most dwarves. His people like keeping to themselves and they are happy with their way of living. Still, some see the world in harsher and greyer colours than the others. Amongst this company he is not the only one, not the only _warrior_. Dwalin is always more detached than Bofur for example, along with Balin, Óin and Bifur; and Thorin of course.

It is no wonder, Gimli thinks, that Bilbo is making faster friends with the others, and that he is eying him warily now.

The time traveller – so used to his companions being accustomed to his gruffness, even the elf – does not get the chance to give the hobbit a calming smile for a rabbit-drawn sled shoots into the clearing they are resting in, startling everyone. Gandalf immediately approaches the strange figure steering the animals, and Gimli gets to cast a first glance of Radagast the Brown.

Shaking his head he returns his attention to the hobbit.

"Come," he says. "Wizard business. Nothing we can participate in. Let us take the opportunity to teach you a little self-defence."

His eyes still keep swaying back to where the two Istari are standing, but Bilbo nods and turns his head at Gimli.

The dwarf smirks. "First, about your stance," he begins without any further introduction. "You want to be standing firm, but in a way that allows you to move easily and quickly into any direction. I would tell you to dodge a blow whenever you can instead of parrying it, for that costs you far less strength – however, blows come quickly, and are hard to evade. You will need to have an excellent feeling for the distance between you and your foe for that which will only come with time. However, it should be rather easy for you compared to many others, you are agile and swift – but not exactly strong. Counting on physical strength will not get you far." He does not give the hobbit a chance to protest.

"Now, your feet." Gimli easily remembers the elf's usual stance whenever he is fighting with a sword or his knives instead of bow and arrow. Legolas is a light fighter, too, concentrating on swiftness instead of pure strength, like the dwarf does. His own style is not suited for a gentle hobbit, but the elf's will do. "Put one in front of the other – whichever you feel more comfortable with. They should be about as far apart as your shoulders, so that you could put a hand in between, and you want to have your knees bent – the deeper the better. It is quite uncomfortable and exhausting, I know, but you will get used to it. All this helps you to have a good balance and be able to move quickly."

They hobbit listens and obeys, a look of utmost concentration on his gentle face.

"Good. Now take your sword."

He hands the hobbit his blade and watches as he wraps the thin fingers of both his hands around the short hilt.

"Actually this sword is meant to be wielded single-handedly, possibly with a shield in the other hand. Maybe it was even meant to be used as a dirk, a long dagger. For you, however, I suppose two hands will do just fine." The corners of his lips are twitching.

Bilbo instantly gives himself airs, incensed.

"My apology, Master Hobbit," Gimli immediately backtracks, having a hard time keeping himself from laughing out loud. "I myself have heard many jokes about my size. It is just… nice to be on the other side for once."

The hobbit shakes his head, but backs down, obviously understanding that.

"Well, back to our little class."

By now Bofur and Glóin have joined them along with the princes, watching curiously.

"Now, there are different blows which you might find useful knowing. Of course, during a fight there is no time to think about technical details. Still, having practiced some techniques makes it easier to _wield_ your sword instead of waving it about. And moves practiced until they come naturally will give you a huge advantage over foes fighting without any technique."

Fíli snickers audibly when hearing the 'waving it about' part.

"Come here, Fíli, please," Gimli calls without turning around. He does not wait for the prince to follow his prompt but immediately explains: "Your preferred weapon is a sword, you should demonstrate the blows. I would not even know the names, although I can hold my own with a blade. However, I an ax-fighter and feel much more comfortable with correcting his stance." He can tell that his grin is a little too evil by the look in the hobbit's eyes.

Fíli grumblingly complies and takes a stance to mirror Bilbo's. Now Kíli is the one snickering aloud.

Gimli snorts and steps next to the hobbit. "You will want to put your feet a little farther apart. Like this," he gently nudges the big bare feet apart with his heavy boot. "There you go. Now, your centre of mass should be in the middle, which makes it easiest for you to quickly move into either direction. Also, bend your knees a little further."

Bilbo nods, biting his lower lip in concentration as he tries to dodge imaginary blows.

"Not bad," Gimli finally interrupts him. The hobbit still requires a lot more training, he would never make it through a full-blown battle at this point, but it will be enough to defend himself should the need arrive. Against Gollum, for example. The time traveller sighs. Hobbits are creatures not made for fighting. "Now, Fíli will show you some blows."

"Right." The blond dwarf smiles. "Just mirror me, aye? Great. Now: You start with the blade on the right side of your head. The hilt should be at the level of your shoulders. Now, you strike down towards your left foot in a straight line…"

Fondly Gimli watches as his friend patiently shows the hobbit how to wield his sword. By the time a loud howl interrupts them Balin and – surprisingly – Thorin, both used to fighting with a sword, have positioned themselves next to the prince, helping him while the wizards still talk.

The warg's arrival, however, brings the lesson to a sudden end, and Thorin gets the chance to immediately prove his skills to his student. He does so with great grace, quickly ending the attacking warg's life.

Gandalf and Radagast, forced to end their whispered conversation, quickly decide on the following course of action and then the Brown Wizard is off on his sled, attempting to detract the wargs' and orcs' attention from the group of fifteen running for their lives.

The first few minutes all of them are keeping up nicely, but with every time they have to stop and change direction in order to avoid getting caught the others take longer to start again, breaths going heavier. Gimli takes this wild hunt across the soft but bleak hills of Rhudaur much easier than many of his companions, and he fondly remembers that he has done his fair share of running, more than most dwarves. This time, however, he is not racing for the lives of two tiny hobbits, but for his own.

Yet he still manages to observe.

Thus he watches the way Thorin always chooses a position among the group that allows him to protect as many of the others as possible.

He also watches his king and the wizard bicker yet _again_.

Knowing that, before his own quest, he would have been the one protesting the loudest when it comes to asking an elf for help – _No one trusts an elf!_ – he keeps quiet and runs along until they stop to hide behind a huge rock.

Gimli and Thorin are the first ones to recognize the presence of one of the beasts above them and with mingled feelings the time traveller watches as their leader prompts Kíli to shoot the warg. Pursing his lips and gulping heavily the youngest of their company does as requested, carefully reaching for an arrow and then suddenly jumping backwards, ready to shoot. He hits the beast as well as its rider on first shot; however, neither of them are dead. Gimli cannot help but think that his elf would have done better, but that is okay. Legolas has an amount of years of experience a dwarf could never dream of living, and his young friend has done well enough.

Grimly he burrows his ax in the head of the warg, watching it twitch for a last time, all the while thinking about a _hunt_ similar to the one this is threatening to become, one that had ended with Aragorn falling down a cliff.

Tearing his thoughts away from that other place and time he runs with those who are his companions now and then finds his place in the circle of dwarves, knowing that Gandalf has, in fact, not abandoned them at all. He watches the others panic, already trying to urge Ori into the direction of the rock that must be the hidden pass. And, really, only moments later the wizard returns, beckoning them to hurry straight towards there. The others do not hesitate to follow and admiringly Gimli watches as Thorin stands guard, protecting each of his followers and jumping into safety only after all others have. Just like Aragorn would have done.

Suddenly bugling echoes across the Rhudaur and Gimli cannot help but smile. The sound of elven horns is one most welcome to his ears ever since the battle for Helm's Deep.

Gandalf obviously feels the same relief he does; still the wizard seems to be mindful enough to realize the sudden easing of the tension in Gimli's shoulders. Oh, not _again_. Mindful pain in the-

No, dwarves are not prone to cursing, not at all.

He flinches when a body comes falling into the cave they are hiding in, and is as quick as Thorin to identify the arrow sticking in the dead orc's carotid as elven. Unlike him, however, their leader is not exactly happy about that fact. Still he tells them to follow the pathway Dwalin has found, all the while weary of what they might encounter.

When they step into sunlight they look upon delicate columns, shining roofs and shadowed patios nestled in a peaceful valley of timeless beauty. Gimli is nearly as enchanted as the hobbit.

This is the third time he sees Rivendell, the last homely house east of the sea.

He hears almost none of Gandalf's ramblings or his companions' complaints, far too occupied with indulging in fond reminiscences. The first time he had come to Imladris, as the elves call it, he had looked upon each and every delicate, playful column with distain. The knowledge that these halls had been made by elvish hands and that elvish feet walked them every day had kept him from enjoying the wonderful architecture, the sheer beauty of the place.

The second time Frodo had lain close to death, and when the Fellowship had arrived at Lord Elrond's house there had been no guarantee that their small hero would make it. They had spent those long hours of cruel waiting sitting together in a room adjacent to the one where the wounded hobbit was being tended to, the Fellowship once again united but for Boromir. Many a story had been told those days, the friends filling each other in on what either of them had gone through from the moment on they had separated. When they had finally received word that their young friend would be up and about within a week, by courtesy of Lord Elrond's healing powers, Legolas had immediately dragged Gimli off, and had gone to explore Imladris' vast library. Not many a bibliotheca in Middle-Earth could compete with the Lord of Rivendell's, especially not now that the elves were steadily sailing west; and Legolas had always been a curious soul.

Gimli had spent hours in the wide, welcoming halls, enjoying the atmosphere, and marvelling at one or the other ancient dwarven tome he found amongst the elven volumes. He had not taken the time to admire Rivendell then, either; far too occupied with admiring the elf.

This time, however, he can appreciate the beautiful architecture; for constructional skill surely is something Mahal's children cherish. And that those halls are of elven making is no longer reason for Gimli to disdain, for in each of the lovingly shaped columns he can almost see his dear friend's fine features; in each relieve and fresco portraying nature his friend's love for everything living.

He is the first of his company to cross the bridge and step upon the floors of Lord Elrond's palace, his heart beating harder and faster than it would in a battle.

Constantly he has to stifle the reflex to look around for a blond shock of hair.

Immediately his gaze falls upon the elvish guards who are watching them with clear distrust in their eyes, but refrain from moving. Gimli understands why the moment he sees Lindir glide forward and down the stairs, the elf looking none at all different from what the time traveller knows him to look like in the future.

"Mithrandir," the elf greets, and Gimli cannot help but smile remembering the many times _his_ elf had addressed the wizard like that. He likes the Sindarin name meaning _grey pilgrim_, it fits the old coot.

He thinks about the day he had discussed this with the elf, during one of their many lessons teaching each other their own tongues. He had mentioned that the dwarves call Gandalf Tharkûn, which is Khuzdul for 'Grey-man', or 'Staff-man'. Being asked why he never addressed their friend that way he had explained that this was part of his people guarding their language more tightly than any other treasure. Legolas had only shaken his head then, and proceeded to let Gimli recite endless series of conjugations, but he had internalized the word like any other the dwarf had told him.

None of his companions, Gimli realizes then, have ever called the wizard Tharkûn. This _greed_ to keep their language secret runs deeper than anything else in their blood.

"Lindir," Gandalf answers, immediately going about the matter with the tact, respect and no small degree of charm he had already announced, and which Gimli knows him so well for. (The elf would have a laughing fit, could he hear those sarcastic thoughts.)

Pretending not to understand Gimli listens as Lindir greets the wizard, smiling, and then watches Gandalf directly ask for Lord Elrond.

… That is what he calls tact and charm?

Lindir's face falls and he begins to explain that his Lord is absent when the sound of the elven horn they have already heard on the plain echoes through Rivendell, before the company suddenly begins to form a tight circle, those least able of protecting themselves safely hidden in the middle. Gimli is so surprised by the sudden commotion that he lets himself be pulled into place by his father, all the while watching the elvish horses draw closer, the ground shaking with the impact of the hooves.

With a slight smile crawling to his twitching lips he observes as the elves draw two circles around them, obviously a lot calmer than any of his companions.

There is a reason he is called _Elf-friend_.

In the beginning he had only tolerated other elves than Legolas, knowing that they could not be as bad as he had thought, but unwilling to approach them. His dear friend, however, had made short work of his reluctance, and, really, not liking Arwen had turned out to be basically impossible. The same held true for Elrond, once Gimli had allowed himself to get to know him closer, as well as Elladan and Elrohir. And Lindir, and Erestor, and Glorfindel. And even Thranduil, when the king's tantrum had been over. So, really, it is no surprise that he is rather amused than troubled.

Gimli does not doubt that both Gandalf and Elrond will realize that fact. Which is totally fine, by the way. After all, he absolutely needs to talk to the Lady Galadriel. And he desperately wants access to Rivendell's library for the period of their stay.

Thus he watches as the elves try their best to make the dwarves nervous, the Lord Elrond in the lead of this short amusement. He is wearing a fine armour, and Gimli thinks that he would like to fight alongside him one day, for he knows the wise elf has seen and won many a battle.

Grinning he listens to the conversion of both aforementioned men, up until the invitation for dinner. Easily he ignores Thorin's rudeness, already used to it. (Not that he would ever have reacted like his uncle does, no, of course not!)

He sits with the rest of his companions at the table for _ordinary mortals_, but his place has clearly been chosen in a way that allows Lord Elrond to watch him. Oh, elves are so not good at being subtle! (He would not have realized that there is more behind his place than obvious on first sight before he had met his very own elf, but that matters little, now, does it?)

Later, when dinner is over, but before Gandalf drags the elf off and away along with Thorin, Balin and Bilbo, Gimli manages to corner the Lord of Rivendell in a quiet minute. Or the other way round. Anyway, really, both of them find each other in a beautiful hallway, moonlight painting eerie shadows upon the elf's face, and the fact that he is different, _immortal_, is beyond obvious.

"Master Dwarf," he is greeted with a bow of the thousands of years old head.

"_ Mae l'ovannen, Lord Elrond_," Gimli answers easily, in heavily accented but perfectly correct Sindarin, his voice as cocky as always. The elf's surprise is clearly written across the ageless features. "_I was wondering whether you would grant me access to your library for the time my company is enjoying your hospitality?_" Oh yes, he does know how to do politeness. After all, he wants something. Or maybe it is just the language. Somehow it is impossible not to sound like leaving behind a trail of slime when talking an elvish tongue.

Elrond's eyebrows are having a field day. "_You are very welcome to enjoy your stay in any way you want, Master Dwarf_," he answers smoothly. "_However, I shall inform Erestor, my trusted librarian, that he is to expect your presence. He will be able to help you with anything you might need._"

Gimli smiles a very honest smile. It will be nice to see the old bookworm again. "_That is very generous of you, Lord Elrond_," he bows his thanks.

It seems the eyebrows are even too surprised to be moving. This really is a day worth remembering.

For a few moments both of them stay silent, observing each other. Calculating.

"_I have already realized that you stayed much calmer than your companions when we met in the forecourt_," the elf finally remarks, breaking the silence. All of the Firstborn are gifted with a natural curiosity that is – in most cases – far stronger than any century-old dislike (hate). Or any self-preservation instinct. Or _anything_, really.

"_I have been called Elvellon_," Gimli discloses, knowing fully well that it will make Lord Elrond even more curious. Which is absolutely his intent, of course.

"_By whom?_" he is – as expected – asked immediately. "_And may I ask for your name, Master Dwarf? You do know mine, after all._"

"_I am called Gimin_," is the dry answer. "_Now, would you excuse me? I believe you are being expected._"

Elrond's gaze follows Gimli's and, really, Gandalf is already waiting for him, his curiosity as plainly visible as the elf's. With a polite nod the Lord of Rivendell strides off, and Gimli does not hesitate to make for the libraries. There is no need to wait for Erestor to be informed, really. He is a big boy and can talk to tall and scary immortals all on his own, thank you very much.

And… he has made it through an entire conversation with an elf without throwing a single insult, even though Legolas has not been present to mediate.

Oh, the other would be proud of him!

* * *

><p><em>TBC<em>

* * *

><p>That stance I was describing (hope it was understandable O.o) - our trainer kept calling it the "Yo-stance", because you look like you think you're cool, but mostly you're looking stupid ^^<p>

And the blow Fili shows Bilbo would be an "Oberhau" - for which I could find no proper translation, unfortunately.


	7. Memories of ages and ages and ages befor

This time I give you  
>- a young old friend<br>- nosy elves  
>- lots of alcohol<br>- a completely smitten Gimli

Enjoy!

* * *

><p><strong>7. Memories of ages and ages and ages before<strong>

_The Hobbit, or There and Back Again – Chapter 5: Riddles in the Dark_

* * *

><p>Grinning the time-traveller marches down by now well-known corridors and straight through the huge, beautiful doors that keep thousands of precious books and scrolls in a safe environment.<p>

He strides past Erestor, who is sitting behind a huge desk, and – without taking any detours – makes for the department containing information on time travel, happily ignoring all present elves. Within minutes he has found all the books he needs, remembering very well which ones Legolas had deemed useful when they had been waiting for Frodo's recovery, but then he comes upon an unexpected problem: Several of the books are written in Sindarin, a few even in Westron. Most, however, are sporting titles in Quenya – as far as he can tell – and some even seem to be of the Telerin and Nandorin languages.

That complicates his research greatly.

He may have cursed a little too loudly, for suddenly Erestor is standing in front of him, the beautiful features caught somewhere between displeasure and curiosity. "May I help you, Master Dwarf?" he asks, hands clasped behind his back.

Gimli frowns. "I doubt that you can, except you want to translate all those books for me?"

Erestor's eyebrows are attempting to rival his Lord's at that point. "What do you need them for?"

"Research," is the curt answer. The dwarf has taken to sorting the books by the tongues they are written in; those in Westron and Sindarin on one side of the desk he has claimed, the others at the opposite end.

"I would neither have the time, nor the wish to help you with that," the elf refuses coolly. Then his eyes fall upon the two piles and, quite obviously, he draws the right conclusion. "You speak Sindarin?" The surprise is clear in his words.

"_I do_," Gimli answers absent-mindedly, thinking that this stay in elven halls is a perfect opportunity for him to practice his dear friend's tongue. "_I would prefer if you did not alert my companions to that fact, though._"

"_I was not planning to_, is the bewildered answer. "_Besides, I highly doubt that any of them will find their way here._"

"You may just be right about that," Gimli mutters.

The corners of Erestor's lips are twitching. "Well. In that case – please, let me help."

He feels his face light up in positive surprise. "_Your offer is most welcome!_" (It is a curious occurrence, really, that his wording always resembles his elven friend's when speaking his tongue. He should find out whether the same goes for Legolas' Khuzdul!)

(For a short, hilarious moment he imagines what phrases the ents' language must be built on.)

In the meantime the librarian has disappeared for a few moments, and is now returning with two comfortable chairs. "Here," he says, placing one behind Gimli, and the other next to it. "This might take a while." He reaches for the book on top of the Quenya-pile. "Now: what kind of information are you looking for? I will write it out for you, while you browse through the Sindarin and Westron books, alright?" From the depths of a drawer he produces a stack of parchments, a few quills and an inkpot.

"Yes, that would be perfect. Thank you," Gimli answers, heartfelt. He takes a seat, reaches for parchment and quill. "I want to look into the magic behind time-travelling," he then explains, knowing that – if he wants to know what the books he cannot read say – he has to reveal that much. "Also, I am interested in what ways time travels have happened in the ages passed."

For a moment Erestor squints his eyes, but then he smiles brightly and nods. "Alright," he agrees, and reaches for writing utensils as well.

The next hours are filled with no sounds but those of parchment rustling and quills scratching, a comfortable and concentrated silence having settled over the small room, part of the huge library. Long have the sunrays diminished outside the colourful glass windows and they are working under the flickering light of a few lanterns when Lord Elrond himself enters their working space, carrying a small tray with food, goblets and a pitcher.

"_I already assumed that I would find you here_," he says, amused. Carefully he lifts a stack of parchments filled with neatly written notes, making room for the tray. "_I see that you have managed to acquaint yourselves without my help. Please, do not forget to eat. I would attempt to coax you into a break, but knowing my librarian I will save myself the breath and energy._" His lips are twitching with soft, fond amusement.

He turns to face Gimli directly, then. "_I have talked to Mithrandir about you. He knows more than me, but less than he would like. If you have travelled through time that explains how it is possible that word about a dwarf being called Elvellon has not reached me._" He smiles, and realization dawns on Erestor's features. "_Do not worry, your secret is safe with me, as it is with Erestor. I have sworn the same oath Mithrandir swore, and was most amazed to learn that one of your companions is actually your father… Gimli Glóin's son._"

Gimli cannot help but roll his eyes. "_I should have known that he would talk_," he grumbles.

Elrond chuckles. "_Considering that you seem to have known him before coming here – yes, you should have_," he easily agrees. "_Anyway. If I can be of help in any way – please let me know._"

The dwarf wonders how much he can disclose. "_Maybe…_" he hesitantly begins, only continuing after seeing Erestor's encouraging nod. "_If the Lady Galadriel should… happen to call upon Imladris, would it be possible that I talk to her?_"

Elrond's eyebrows are dancing across their carrier's forehead with an elegance that would make any elven maid go green with envy. Obviously he has already planned for the White Council to take place in Rivendell within a few days.

"_I shall inform her of your request_," the Lord finally answers, and actually smiles a wide, honest smile. "_It is my conviction that you have been sent here for a reason, thus be assured of my help in whatever way I can provide_," he then promises seriously, before turning to leave the library. "And do not forget to eat," they hear him call from two rooms further.

Erestor shakes his head, grinning. "A time-traveller," he repeats, voice awed. "I did not think that I would meet another one during my stay in Middle-Earth."

Gimli has already opened his mouth to _ask_, but the elf has only just taken up his quill again and his eyes are fixed on a pale elven script in an ancient tome. With his free hand he reaches for the pitcher and pours each of them a goblets of clear, fresh water, careful not to spill a drop.

Surrendering the dwarf takes the time to eat one of the delicious pies waiting for them, followed by a bite of lembas. Obviously the elves do not only make use of that bread when on long journeys, but also during long nights of research. He is more than fine with that, knowing that he will be able to fully concentrate on his work now.

Underneath their shared concentration night easily passes into day and only when afternoon arrives Gimli puts his quill away and stretches, his pile having shrunken down to three books.

Erestor raises his deep eyes from his work, he still has five tomes and a scroll left. His stack of notes is disturbingly high and next to the parchment he is writing onto lies a dictionary that he has picked up at some point during the night – obviously he is already working on the Telerin and Nandorin records. "Do you need a break?" he asks and Gimli knows for certain that the elf will not think any less of him if he confirms.

"I do," he admits thus and rises, enjoying the sensation of moving after having sat for so long. "My eyes are tired, as are my fingers. I am a warrior, not a scholar."

The librarian smiles. "I thought so," he admits. "I advise that you get some sleep. Perhaps you should also show your companions that the evil elves have not killed you." Both of them snicker. "Go on. I will finish this up for you."

"I… cannot-"

"Sure you can." Erestor rises as well and begins to push Gimli towards the door. "How about that: I will not come by to give you my notes, but you return here tomorrow and we chat a little, over a glass of good wine."

The dwarf smiles. "That would be splendid," he gives in, and lets himself be shoved out of the room. "_Thank you!_" After all, who would be able to say no to elven wine?

"_You are most welcome_," is the absent answer, the elf clearly already concentrating on his work again.

Shaking his head fondly – _elves!_ – Gimli makes for where his company must be – the only noisy place in this immortal valley. He finds them easily: bathing in a huge, beautiful fountain. Naked. He also sees the shock on Elrond's face when he and Lindir stumble upon the (for those proper, prim creatures perhaps rather disturbing) scene. Suppressing a gleeful cackle Gimli marches past them, grinning cockily, and towards the merry and very wet gathering. His companions are so occupied with their epic three-storey rooster fight tournament that they do not even question where he has spent the night when he asks for the rooms they have been given.

He then immediately makes for the pointed out suite and falls asleep the moment his head has touched the very fluffy pillow.

His body uses this rare chance to get all the sleep he has denied it in the last weeks and he when he wakes again from unsettling dreams about elves and dwarves and rooster fight wars it is almost noon.

The rest of his company – safe Bilbo – has gathered in an adjacent room, happily burning furniture in order to grill sausages despite the fact that they are going to be served a proper meal within minutes; and that they have let him sleep was clearly of Bofur's making. Gimli sits with them for about an hour, enjoying a lush lunch and the dirty jokes exchanged, before he excuses himself and slips out into the corridor before any of his companions has even opened his mouth to protest.

Easily he finds his way back to the huge library; however, when he has almost reached the wide halls again something completely unexpected happens: He stumbles upon young boy with soft brown hair and deep blue eyes, eyes he knows very well. Also, although having fine features, the child clearly is not elvish. Holding his breath Gimli does the counting, and actually forgets to breathe when he realizes that he is standing in front of ten-year-old Aragorn.

He cannot help but kneel down, and give the boy his most beaming smile. (Which, most likely, is still rather gruff.) "_I am Gimli, son of Glóin_," he introduces himself, finding himself unable to give this child who should one day be his best friend a false name.

"_I am Estel_," the boy answers, his voice bell-like. "_You are a dwarf_," he then states.

Gimli chuckles. "_That I am_," he easily agrees.

"_But you speak Sindarin. Dwarves do not speak Sindarin, they speak Khuz-dul._" He stumbles over the word that is so harsh compared to the elvish tongue.

"_I am very good friends with an elf_," Gimli explains.

"_With whom? Do I know them?_" the boy asks, eager and curios like any proper elfling.

Gimli knows, he should not tell him, but this is _Aragorn_. He is the best friend Gimli has ever had apart from Legolas, and the best leader he has ever come upon apart from Thorin. (Who will always come first as his King.) "_Will you… do you promise not to tell anyone what you know about me?_"

"_I promise._" Estel's sweet voice is so very sincere.

"_Alright. Now, surely you have heard of King Thranduil of the woodland realm?_"

"_Of course I have!_"

"_Then you also know about his son?_"

"_Legolas!_"

Gimli smiles fondly. "_Exactly. And it is Legolas who is my friend._"

The boy gapes. "_But the Great Greenwood is far away!_"

"_That it is. You have to go across the Misty Mountains, Hithaeglir, and the plains of the Great River Anduin, and then make it to the other side of the Greenwood._"

"_But you have been there?_"

"_Yes, and I am on my way there again._"

"_Can I come with you?_" the child immediately begs, huge eyes round and pleading.

It breaks Gimli's heart to say no. "_I am afraid you have to stay here._" The boy's shoulders sag. "_But how about that: I will return, and bring Legolas with me, and then you get to know him, too._"

"_Oh, yes!_" Estel is bouncing now.

"_We have an agreement, then_," Gimli smiles. "_Now, I have promised Erestor to meet him. Can you show me where he is?_" Of course Gimli knows where to look for the elf, but he does not want to say goodbye to his young friend just yet. The young hope of men has wrapped him around his little finger with but a few sentences and sweet looks – not that he minds.

The child nods eagerly and instantly tears off into the direction of the library, barely giving his dwarven friend the chance to follow. They dart past the mural painting showing Isildur defeating Sauron, and it is all Gimli can do not to stop and reach for the broken blade of Narsil.

Estel's laugh, however, is clear and carefree and _intoxicating_, and the dwarf finds himself unable not to dash after his friend like he once did follow him across the Eastemnet, his deep guffaw mingling with the bright pearls and his heavy dwarven boots hitting the delicate elven-made floor in total contrast to the boy's light steps.

Whenever Aragorn calls upon him, Gimli will follow.

When the dwarf rushes into the huge halls Estel has already jumped at Erestor, and the librarian has caught the boy, holding him close. Elves, like dwarves blessed with very few children, cherish their young as much as Mahal's sons do. Every Firstborn in the formerly quiet rooms that are now filled with excited chatter smiles indulgently at the boy, instead of complaining.

Gimli knows that his face is probably way too open as he watches the happy child, so careless and free. There are worlds between the Estel of these days, the Aragorn who had pledged his life and sword to a small hobbit, and the Elessar who will be crowned King of Arnor and Gondor in a far future.

Erestor carries the boy to the door where Gimli is already waiting, and sets his young charge down, before smiling at the dwarf.

After waving at the redhead Estel scurries away, very pleased with himself, and the librarian leads his visitor to a room adjacent to the great hall which contains most of the books and scrolls. It is obviously his office, filled with documents and files instead of tomes and records about any topic imaginable. He offers Gimli a chair and walks to close the door, before opening a wooden cupboard.

"Alright, what do you prefer? I have two bottles of a very good wine, a flask of miruvor, and I could easily get a keg of ale from the kitchens."

Gimli raises an eyebrow. He had not expected 'chat over a glass of wine' to mean 'get drunk as a lord'. Well, he is totally fine with the latter. "I would not want you to open your miruvor, so how about we empty your wine and when our taste buds are properly benumbed we continue with the ale?" He sure knows to appreciate a good elven wine.

Erestor laughs. "That sounds like an excellent plan," he agrees, and carries two chalices to the table, along with the bottles. He opens the first one, pours both of them a generous amount, and then settles into his own chair.

"Now tell me, _Elvellon_, how do you know Estel? Have you met him in your future?"

Blasted elf-eyes, they miss nothing, Gimli thinks. "However you know that I have not come from a past gone by," he mutters.

Erestor laughs again. "Elrond has talked," is all he says on the matter.

Gimli rolls his eyes. "You immortals are such gossips!" he complains. They chink glasses, toasting.

"_Almien!_" the dwarf says the traditional Quenya word.

The elf laughs yet again. "_Almien!_" He takes a sip, closing his eyes as he appreciates the bouquet. "True," he then agrees, returning to their topic of discussion. "But you have to understand – the world gets boring after the first few millennia. For us, every distraction is welcome." He grins.

The dwarf remembers how well Erestor and _his_ elf had gotten along upon their second stay in Rivendell, and cannot help but wish for Legolas to be here. "You are simply terribly nosy, each and every one of you," he retorts in the meantime.

"Maybe."

Gimli is getting used to the bright laughter.

They exchange a few more teasing insults, both enjoying that trading them results in bouts of laughter instead of blood and war and death, like it usually would.

Erestor hands the dwarf a pack of parchments, all filled with lines upon lines of notes. Part of them are written in a neat, easily legible script, the elegant Tengwar characters flowing across the page like a piece of art. The others, which are far messier, have been pinned down in angular shaped Angerthas runes, giving them a far rougher appearance.

The elf's gaze is curious when his eyes fall upon the dwarven writing, but he manages to wrestle down his thirst for knowledge.

"Thank you," Gimli says again, sincerely. "You were of great help."

Erestor smiles honestly. "It was my pleasure."

The dwarf takes the time to quickly skim over the information Erestor has gathered, before putting the fruits of their nightly labours away and drowning the rest of wine in his chalice in one gulp. "Yes, that really is good wine you have got there," he then agrees contently.

Once more the elf's laughter pearls through the room as he refills the chalice.

Then the interrogation begins.

"_Now, tell me, Gimli Glóin's son – how has it happened that you have travelled through time?_" Gimli raises and eyebrow and the librarian immediately justifies himself: "You yourself have said that my race is terribly nosy!"

"_That I have_," Gimli admits, sighing in defeat. "_Alright. There is not much I can tell you, though. I do not know why I have been sent here, for I have not come on purpose. It is beyond my knowledge whether or not I am supposed to change the course of history. However, I pray that I am._"

Erestor's eyes are very understanding when he asks: "_What will occur that has you pray for it to be prevented?_"

Gimli stares at the elf he has struck up a teasing friendship with, in another time. He weighs his options, watching as the elf stays miraculously patient, although his curiosity is obvious. "_In… a few years' time… a fellowship will form; here, in Rivendell_," he finally says, slowly, "_consisting of two men, one elf, one dwarf, four hobbits and a wizard. We will set out for a hazardous quest and many things that should never have happened will come to be._"

He is not going to say more on the topic, and apparently Erestor can tell that. So instead of asking he pours each of them another glass, before stating with twinkling eyes: "_Surely Gandalf is the wizard you are talking about._"

Gimli raises his glass in a mock salute. "_True_, he agrees, taking a sip.

"_And… if I may venture a guess… might young Estel be one of the two men at your side?_"

Blasted elves, they are far too intelligent and perceptive for their own good. (Age does that to people, he supposes.) "_Maybe_," is all he says on the matter, well aware that this is as much as an affirmation. "_And no, I am not going to reveal who the elf is._"

"_Which is probably for the better_," Erestor gives in. "_However, it certainly explains how you have come upon the name Elvellon. Here, drink some more._"

The librarian is quite talented at refilling.

Six hours later finds a very drunk elf, an even drunker dwarf and three empty kegs of ale next to the two emptied bottles of wine.

When Gimli tries (and fails spectacularly) to return to his bed without attracting attention way past midnight he is intercepted by two very nosy princes and his father, all three of them asking where he has been. And where he has gotten the ale from. And what those parchments he is carrying are for. And anyway.

The night goes on farther for a long time after that, and one of the rooms provided for the dwarves is particularly noisy, while the others are filled with no sounds but those of thunderous snores. The elves, for a change do not mind the background noise. Many of Rivendell's residents have gathered in their Lord Elrond's lounge, trying their very best to tickle as much information as possible out of an unfortunately very silent Erestor. (Not that any of the dwarves know that, of course, although Gimli might guess.)

Glóin, Fíli and Kíli back down maybe an hour before dawn, all of them deciding to finally retire – all but Gimli, who is paid an unexpected visit by a very awake Lord Elrond the moment his companions have fallen asleep, and asked to follow the old warrior to a beautiful pavilion. The dwarf, still rather on the drunk side, complies happily, stepping through a lovely archway before he stops dead in his tracks, staring at a figure standing in front of him.

There is no mistaking the silhouette outlined against the moonlit sky.

* * *

><p><em>TBC<em>


	8. Like a shadow on the borders of old stor

So, I watched the extended edition of Unexpected Journey, and I laughed my ass off.  
>Gimli can't really believe it, either.<p>

I'm going through this part rather quickly. You know what happens, after all...

Have fun!

* * *

><p><strong>8. Like a shadow on the borders of old stories<strong>

_The Lord Of The Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring – Chapter 2. The Shadow of the Past_

* * *

><p>He gasps for air, watching as the beautiful elvish Lady turns around, and almost feels her enter his mind the second they make eye-contact. He does not try to stop her, because, frankly, he does not want to. Freely he offers her whatever information she might be looking for, all the while staring into those ancient pale blue eyes. Her golden hair shines, reflecting the moonlight.<p>

When she breaks the connection her eyes are wide, pupils dilated. There is a strange line about her mouth and her features look like set in stone. She has seen what will come to pass, no doubt.

For minutes neither of them moves.

Suddenly, without any warning, she re-establishes the bond. _That is dangerous knowledge that you have, Master Dwarf._ Her voice is bright and clear in his mind.

He bows his head, agreeing.

_Yet you do not plan on using it, not unless you are sure that it is for the best_, she then states, the dark lines slowly melting from her beautiful ageless face like ice warmed by a ray of sun. _That is very noble of you, Gimli, son of Glóin._

"It is the right thing to do," he declares, well aware that she knows his pain about maybe having to let his friends, his King, perish.

_That it is_, she agrees. _Not many would have the strength to do so. However, I believe with the help of your elvish friend you will be capable of doing whatever necessary._

Of course she has found out about _that_, too.

_You hoped to receive an answer on what you should do from me. I am afraid I cannot help you for now; however, I shall look into the matter and inform you of what I believe to be the best course of action before the battle I saw in your memories arrives. Of course you may also contact me whenever you have any questions._

Gimli nods his thanks. "I am most grateful for that offer," he answers sincerely, bows stiffly and then turns around to leave the pavilion and ask for a raven before getting ready for departure. It seems a meeting with the Lady Galadriel is as good a medicine against a hangover as any; and he urgently needs to inform Legolas about this latest development.

Her bright laughter and a called _Do not leave yet, Gimli, son of Glóin_ resounding in his mind make him stop.

"There is something I want to give to you," she says, and a beautiful smile lightens up both her fair face and the night. Swiftly she tears three strands of hair form her golden head, offering them to the dwarf. "You may ask Lord Elrond for a suitable receptacle," she winks before turning around and returning to the platform where the pavilion opens up to the abyss, her silhouette once more outlined against the night.

Gimli stands unmoving for a few moments, clutching the dear keepsake to his heart. Finally he manages to shake off the rigour that has taken a hold of him and marches off into the direction he has come from, not daring to look back.

Elrond is waiting for him at the base of the pale stairs he takes, an amused smile on his lips.

Clearly he has listened in.

Elves and their curiosity.

"Come," he says, "follow Lindir. He will provide you with what you are looking for. I myself, I am afraid, have to go about my duties now."

"Thank you," Gimli says, voice hoarse, and follows the other elf who was standing a few feet behind his Lord. The poet leads him through many a hallway and corridor until they reach a wide room filled with cabinets and vitrines. In every single one trinkets and pieces of jewellery and other precious objects are shining and sparkling, each one more beautiful than the next. His dwarvish heart beats faster upon all the gold and silver and gems.

"Please," Lindir says, "take whatever you need for your purpose."

Gimli, a very honourable dwarf, takes not more than one piece: A silver necklace with a pendant made of a small glass vial. It fits the three strands of golden hair just perfectly, and the time traveller walks away, feeling much better with his good-luck charm back above his heart.

In the meantime Lindir has gotten hold of a raven for him, and Gimli makes a detour to the libraries, pinning down a quick message in sharp Angerthas:

_Khathuzh,  
>This is written to inform you that I have spoken to the Lady. She promised to look into the matter and let us know in time, until then we must not risk anything. She also returned her gift for me.<em>

He hesitates, but then puts a last sentence down, before signing with his true name.

_I cannot wait to meet you.  
>Bâhur Azaghâl<em>

Walking back to the suite where his companions must be getting ready to leave he quietly talks to the bird perched on his shoulder, asking the animal to take the message to Legolas. By the time he reaches the others the raven has already flown off and he is as ready to depart as he ever will be. He knows that his company will be leaving while the White Council takes place, and is slightly disappointed that he will not be able to bid his farewells to Erestor. He would write a few lines to be found when these rooms are being cleaned, were he not too nervous to be caught writing Tengwar with his fellow dwarves so close.

Within a few minutes they have left the welcoming halls of Lord Elrond's realm, walking as quietly as they have ever walked. Thorin leads them towards a path Gandalf must have told him of, winding through the valley and up towards the peaks of the Misty Mountains.

The familiar weight of the necklace makes marching into the dawn much easier for Gimli who, other than the hobbit, does not turn around to look back. He knows that the Lady of Lórien's thoughts will be with them on their journey, and is calmer than he has ever been since finding himself stranded in this time.

Truly, the fairest of all elven Ladies always makes his heart lighter.

Through heat and rain he marches easily, realizing soon enough that now that they are venturing into the Misty Mountains they are no longer far from meeting the skinchanger. Of course they will have to go through battle and pain and fire first, but that will be well worth it – for Legolas will be waiting on the other side. Driven forward by that prospect Gimli follows his leader into the cold and darkness of the Hithaeglir, not hesitating for a moment.

Still the sudden movement of rock and stone shocks him, and with wide eyes he watches what he has only heard about in stories.

Suddenly the path beneath them shakes and he clings to the stone wall in his back – the same stone the halls of Moria are hewn from – as part of his company is being whirled away, caught up in a battle of _stone giants_. He has expected it, of course, but still the sheer size of the battling creatures takes his breath and leaves him fearing for his life. Unlike the others, however, he does have hope to make it out of this alive, and he easily jumps onto an unmoving platform when the opportunity arises while half or their company is still being spun about.

He watches them crash into mountain with the same fear in his eyes that he sees in Thorin's and Kíli's and, sighing, assesses that knowing in advance how everything will end does not make living through it any less terrifying.

His princeling friend makes it out of that disaster, though, along with the others. And _of course_ they find Bilbo dangling from a sharp edge, his grip threatening to slip any moment. Thorin is the one to unhesitatingly jump forward to help him, for despite the fact that he is terribly annoyed by the hobbit Bilbo still is part of the company who followed him into this madcap quest, and he would give his life for any of them.

Gimli smiles, able to look through Thorin's mask more and more often, finding a great king and loving uncle instead of the always disgruntled family member who never is there he remembers from his childhood. He is well aware that he has grown up quite a bit since having seen his uncle for the last time (in another lifetime), most definitely due to his own quest, and his own will to risk everything in order to protect the lands he calls home. He is not sure whether he should laugh about the better understanding, or weep for all that has been lost during the war that has offered him this chance.

Dwalin finds them a dry cave and they rush into it, eagerly accepting that illusion of safety. Gimli sees the way Thorin and Dwalin look about, and he knows he is not the only one aware of the danger they are actually in.

His own father, unfortunately, is not. It is a good thing that their leader has more common sense, and keeps him from lighting a fire.

_Really._

They try to make themselves comfortable, then, preparing their bedrolls and retiring as soon as possible.

Unsurprisingly, however, sleep eludes Gimli that night once again. He should have taken first watch in Bofur's stead, he thinks, as he listens to the heart-wrenching conversion about homes, well aware that Thorin is wide awake, too. He is touched when he realizes how much his Shire really means to Bilbo, what he has given up coming on this adventure. (What Frodo, Sam, Merry and Pippin gave up when they agreed to take the Ring to Mordor.) It fills him with warmth that Bilbo is not here for adventure, or gold, but for _them_.

For Thorin.

When Bofur spots the blue glow of Sting and their leader shouts at them to get up Gimli is startled, torn from his thoughts, but quickly calms down again.

Everything he _cannot_ lose is securely tucked away in the small pouch hidden underneath his chainmail (including his and Erestor's notes), the pendant with Galadriel's hair safe above his heart and the ax already in his hands. The rest does not matter.

He is prepared for this.

Still, the fall is far from pleasant.

He is a dwarf, made of sturdy material, but sliding down a bumpy stone tube, into the heart of a mountain that is inhabited by goblins, is not exactly what he would do for fun. All of them take this better than Bilbo, though, Gimli reminds himself and lets the goblins grab at him, kicking them as often as he manages to, his fingers clutched around the hilt of his labrys. He knows that he will get it back in the end, but letting go of it still feels _wrong_.

The goblins have a terrible taste of music – and humour – the time traveller cannot help but think. If there was at least some reasonable rhythm, maybe their chanting would not be that unbearable. And the Goblin King may possess a lot of things, but he does _not_ have a singing voice.

Gimli shudders.

It is an abomination, like Balin rightly says.

They are being searched then, and he knows, the elf would have a laughing fit knowing that Gimli's biggest problem is that he is terribly ticklish. He does not have to keep himself together for long, though, for soon the goblins stop and his companions try their best to talk them out of this… situation. It does not really work, of course. Especially not when Bofur opens his mouth and gets lost in definitions, which confuses and angers the Goblin King equally.

They are threatened with torture, then, and – finally – Thorin speaks up.

Which was probably not a good idea, since he is immediately recognized.

And the Goblin King is even worse at attempting to bow gracefully than he is at singing.

(And Gimli should really get a hold of his sarcasm.)

Then – Azog is mentioned again and Gimli can almost watch Thorin's blood boil. Disbelievingly he then observes as one of the goblins sails down into the darkness, sitting in a sling that is attached to a rope. The creature is cackling menacingly, all the while furiously scribbling away in what is most likely an illegible script.

The time-traveller thinks that he must be imagining things, that this cannot be right. Surely this part of the glorious quest for Erebor was not this… ridiculous?

(Maybe Ori _forgot_ to mention some details in his records.)

He is, however, reminded that all this is real and quite serious business when suddenly a great clamour arises and, without a warning, whips come down upon them – the Goblin King has lain his eyes upon Orcrist, and the cruelty of his subjects seems to have increased tenfold upon the mention of that one blade.

Then a bony dagger is getting dangerously close to Thorin's throat and Gimli tries to fight his capturers with twice as much vigour, desperately trying to break away, to _save his King_- … when, without a warning, a blast comes over them, followed by darkness.

Gandalf's silhouette is easily recognizable against the light in his back, and with the wizard's arrival strength and the will to fight seep back into the dwarves' veins; and Gimli finally manages to break loose.

He is thrown his ax and immediately his muscles turn into steel and stone, the thrill of _battle_ coming over him just like that. He lets go of all ridiculous thoughts and fights with all the furore and ire of a dwarvish warrior attacked by sheer endless numbers of filthy goblins. Next to him Dwalin is burning, and Bifur is raging. Gandalf leads them away, across narrow wooden paths and they all follow, killing and harming and fighting for their lives themselves all the while.

This time Gimli does not try to withstand the pull and lets himself be bound to the group; he fights alongside his brave companions, running deeper and deeper into the mountain, _down, down, down in Goblin Town_.

They slice their way through the goblins, pulling off some pretty unbelievable feats one can only do when in mortal peril until, out of nowhere, the Goblin King breaks through the planks, stopping their race into the depth. Gandalf makes short shrift of him, though, and soon they are falling, even deeper. They are lucky beyond belief, for the abyss beneath them narrows in a way that saves their lives, their landing being far from as hard as it would have been otherwise.

For a change Bombur is not the one landing atop all of them.

However, the Goblin King takes care of that. (And Gimli could have killed Bofur for his completely inappropriate and clearly fate-tempting comment.)

They bob up as quickly as possible, crawling out of the wooden mess, and Gandalf leads them towards sunlight now, towards the day, and is it not a nice coincidence that they happen to come out on the other side of the mountain?

What is _not_ a nice coincidence is that the goblin scribe obviously did his job, and fast at that. Just when Bilbo has appeared out of thin air – and Gimli _knows_ that the One Ring is now tucked safely away in the hobbit's pocket, and fights the overwhelming urge to tear it out and run to Mount Doom without stopping until he has taken care of it – surprising Thorin yet again, a warg's howl alerts them to their enemy's presence. (Which is not exactly tactically wise, really.)

So they run as fast as their short feet can carry them and Bilbo rather involuntarily pulls off his first kill, barely making it onto one of the rescuing trees in time. And then…

…Azog is there.

Gimli watches the wargs attack, clutching to the trunk of his tree, and again he almost forgets that they will make it out of this alive, too caught up by the helplessness of the situation.

(Will they? Maybe the weight of one dwarf more will ultimately uproot the tree, make them drop off the cliff, now that all of them are hanging in this one conifer, maybe him being here will make the difference, maybe-)

Suddenly Gandalf is throwing burning cones at the beasts attacking them, and all the companions participate eagerly, relieved to be able to do _something_. Thinking that were the elf here he would not feel so helpless, he would stand up and fight despite all odds, Gimli watches the wargs recoil from the flames dancing in front of their noses and remembers that they are wild animals, even though they are obeying the orcs' every word. Which is a dark reminder of the fact the orcs were elves, once, before having been tortured and tormented until they turned into those foul creatures. He imagines Legolas being excruciated like that, until everything Gimli loves about him makes way for darkness and death. He feels sick to his stomach.

(At least, he thinks, there are no uruks among this pack.)

He is torn from those dark thoughts and old memories by Thorin, who manages to pull himself onto the trunk and then _charges_.

Oh, by all gods!

Of course Gimli has known that this would happen, having been told every tale about his heroic leader so often, but still, seeing it shocks him to the core. This is his _King_ out there, marching alone against a clearly superior enemy. He tears his eyes away from what is going to be, _has_ to be a disaster, and attempts to climb onto the trunk as well, frenziedly. Absently he realizes that Bilbo manages to stand up, and then comes to Thorin Oakenshield's aid.

He finds the strength and balance to do so as well, then, and in the wake of Dwalin rushes forward, the princes at his side.

Fighting is _good_; it is so much better than helplessly dangling from a tree, and angrily Gimli wields his ax, battling wargs and orcs and protecting his fallen king.

He realizes that Azog makes for Bilbo instead of Durin's heirs, and fights his way over. He would not have been fast enough, he is brutally aware of that; however, fortunately he does not have to be, for suddenly there are huge claws clutching at the orcs, enormous wings fanning the flames, deadly beaks hacking at the enemy. Gimli is being picked up and dropped onto another eagle's back, and although he knows that he will be safe he cannot stop that tiny yelp form being torn from his lips.

Dwarves are not meant to be in the air.

They are not meant to be dropped, they are not meant to be tossed (he thinks about _Nobody tosses a dwarf!_, and _Don't tell the elf!_ and is very relieved that Legolas has not heard this very unmanly cry) and they are not meant to fly on an eagle's back.

Just like elves are not meant to dwell in caves and underneath mountains.

Absent-mindedly he watches Gandalf jump off the falling trunk, literally taking a leap of faith – and wishes that he could have the same faith in those muscles and feathers beneath him.

He closes his eyes, then, and hides his face in soft feathering, trying to forget that he is flying. He thinks about the elf instead, lets his mind travel ahead to the east, even faster than the powerful wings are carrying them. He knows, from the many tales his father has told about this quest (and those Frodo has recounted of his Uncle Bilbo's adventure) that they will be reaching the safety of Beorn's place soon, within two days, and that occupies his mind well enough.

His stomach flips when he feels them lose altitude, but he forces his mind to stay with the good, hefty meal that is awaiting them, along with blue eyes and delicate features.

Fortunately the eagles do not drop them onto the plateau where Thorin is already lying, but lower them down gently, and soon Gimli is rushing towards his fallen king, who Gandalf is already kneeling next to, more than relieved to see their leader open his eyes.

Yes, he _knows_ what must happen.

Still, seeing Thorin Oakenshield like this leaves him shaken and alleviated beyond belief.

Dwalin and Kíli immediately move forward to help their proud (and no longer broken) King rise, who is ready to face the halfling.

And face Bilbo he does.

He gives the hobbit verbal hell, before finally admitting that he has been mistaken. And when they hug… Gimli can almost feel all those emotions boiling between them, and it breaks his heart to know that neither will act on them.

Reminding himself that meddling is not his job, but a certain wizard's, he turns around in time with the others only to lie his eyes upon a distant peak, dark against the setting sun. He gasps for air, then, just like his companions, when he sees his _home_. He has spent the last years of his youth in Erebor's wide halls, as well as the better part of his adult life (before going on a mad quest to save Middle-Earth) – having been one of those who had their homeland reclaimed for them. He knows that mountain, knows its halls and caverns, but laying eyes upon it like this, with his brothers in arms, his _family_ at his side, still makes his heart beat faster.

Because this moment means so much.

It brings their goal home to them, what they are fighting for, and he sees the will to – if necessary – die for this quest renewed in the eyes of each of his companions.

Of course Gandalf is the one who breaks the deep, reverent silence.

* * *

><p><em>TBC<em>

* * *

><p>So, we're <em>finally<em> getting closer to Beorn's - YAY :D


	9. It seems a terrible long time that I've

**9. It seems a terrible long time that I've been away**

_The Lord Of The Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring – Chapter 7: The Mirror of Galadriel_

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><p>"We should move on," Gandalf says. "Our enemies are not far behind us, and they travel quickly. Every minute we stay here they draw closer."<p>

Thorin darts the wizard a dark look, but the spell is broken. Each of them grips their weapons and whatever little they may have left, and then they make for the stairs leading down, down, down. The descent seems to take them ages, the number of steps not appearing to become any less no matter how many they take. Evening has almost come when they finally reach the foot of the Carrock, as Gandalf calls it, and all of them are more than ready for a good night's sleep. The wizard, however, urges them to move on, claiming that there is no time to be lost. They march through the night, no matter their variously battered states, and when the next morning dawns Bilbo is sent scouting: How much advance is still left, how close has their enemy gotten?

The hobbit sneaks off, going about that business in a very Tookish way.

He returns with bad news.

Azog and his pack have gained much more ground than any of them has expected; they are a couple of leagues away, no farther. Also, a huge bear is in the vicinity. It is doubtful that they could fight off either of them, not to mention – if the worst should happen – both at the same time. It is then that Gandalf, finally, tells them about a house that is near, where they can seek refuge.

When Thorin asks whether the owner is friend or foe the wizard's answer is rather unsettling: "Neither. He will either help us… or he will kill us."

And Gimli knows that the moment he has been awaiting impatiently for weeks now is coming closer with every passing second.

_Finally_.

Gandalf urges them on, then, across plains and through forest, running and running and running; and still both of their threats draw dangerously close. They barely manage to reach the safety of Beorn's house without being torn into pieces by said skinchanger's second form, and it is only when they have locked the door that Gandalf explains to them that who they have just fled from was in fact their host.

Gimli does not listen.

He hastily looks around the room, trying to get a glimpse of golden hair and a slim stature. When he does not he deflates visibly, sitting down at the huge table and ignoring his companions.

Was the other delayed? Has something happened to him? Will he arrive to meet him before they have to move on?

So many questions and so few answers.

Soon night falls upon the valley of the Anduin, and the rest of his company lies down to sleep. Gimli stays sitting at the table, wide awake; his heart beating too fast and his mind filled with chaos. Gandalf darts him a worried glance, but in the end retires to a bed of straw as well. The silence falling upon the house would be eerie, were it not constantly interrupted by the loud snores of thirteen dwarves who have never learned to sleep quietly.

(Gimli has.)

He is startled when suddenly a back door too small to fit the grand bear's frame is opened and a figure – no, _two_ – quietly step into the room, one of them jumping into the air and clinging to a roof joist easily, darting across the room to fast for the unskilled eye to see. The other figure is huge and the silhouette gives the impression of an almost feral man, who is breathing heavily.

The first one, now located at the other end of the room, Gimli recognizes instantly.

The moment he lays eyes upon the figure – tall and slender, hair moving slightly in the nightly breeze blowing through an opened window, and eyes from another world almost glowing in the dark, fixed on him – Gimli's world tilts and tilts until it is moving in the right direction again and everything is as it _should_ be.

This is what it means that Legolas is his One.

He has jumped to his feet within the blink of an eye, and, as quietly as possible, rushes across the room, towards the skinchanger. He briefly stops in front of Beorn, giving him a silent bow of the head, before he moves on, the direction the other newcomer has taken; and reaches up to gently tap his forehead against the one already coming down to meet his, its owner sitting at the huge table. They then greet each other the proper elvish way, before Gimli unceremoniously wraps his arms around the tall figure's torso, like men would do.

Then, finally, he looks up and meets the deep blue gaze.

Legolas' beaming smile is lightening up the whole cottage, and Gimli finds himself unable to loosen his grip just yet.

The elf does not seem to mind, but puts his hands onto the dwarf's shoulders, a welcome weight after so many weeks of worrying.

"_Seeing you again lightens my heart, mellon nín_," is whispered in Sindarin into his ear.

Beorn has moved on, letting his gaze travel over the thirteen snoring dwarves and one very awake hobbit (who does not seem to have seen the elf, fortunately), before making for a chair. In the meantime Legolas has carefully loosened the grip of his friend's arms, leading the dwarf to another chair. "_Sit_," he murmurs, quietly enough to not be heard by the hobbit's ears. "_I have already been awaiting your arrival impatiently_," he then continues, all the while smiling. "_I am ever glad that I have not stranded in this bygone time alone. And that it is you I have travelled with, my dear friend._" Gimli's heart may or may not be doing some funny things at hearing that. "_Now, tell me: Has everything gone according to plan?_"

"Aye," Gimli whispers, unable to take his eyes off the elf. (Who does not seem to mind.) "_So far everything has come to be the way it should. I have taken care of that, no matter how hard it may have been at times. Also, as I have informed you, I have spoken to the Lady Galadriel, and she has promised to let us know of her opinion in time._"

"_Is there anyone else you told?_"

"_Yes, I had to tell my parents. Also, Gandalf found out, and told Elrond, who let Erestor know. Terrible gossips, those elves._" Legolas' laughter, although quiet, is bright and clear, just like Gimli remembers it. It makes his heart beat hard and fast, and he feels light, almost like floating off. "_And, quite obviously, I had to inform the Lady Galadriel of our fate. Have you told anyone?_"

"_My father. He realized immediately, of course. I am not the first time-traveller he has met, and although our case has been unprecedented it was clear that I indeed have travelled through time. I have also tried to brace him for the fact that I am friends with a dwarf now. Gently, needless to say._" His eyes are sparkling in the pale light of the moon falling through Beorn's high windows and the smile playing around his lips is bashful. "_He did not react any more positively than the last time, which was to be expected. We will have to convince him again._"

"_Oh, convince him I will!_"

"_I have no doubt about that._" The elvish lips are now twitching with amusement.

"Oh, you!" Gimli grumbles, crossing his arms. He knows very well that his smile probably is as stupid as the other's. When it comes to friendly banter there is no pair in Middle-Earth to surpass the two of them.

"_I am glad to be united with you once more, mellon nín_," Legolas murmurs. "_Now, while you were working on your still lacking fighting skills_" – he ignores the indignant "Oi!" – "_I have not been idle, either. You and Frodo have told me enough about this quest to allow me to make definite plans. I have spoken to my father and the skinchanger, as well as Tauriel, the captain of our guard. We have decided that your companions must not know about my presence as long as in any way possible. Thorin Oakenshield would not allow you to follow him knew he that you are friends with Thranduil's son. Thus I will only stay here until the first of your fellow dwarves awakens, and then I shall leave for Mirkwood. I have come here by horse, and if I leave a few hours earlier than you I can easily make it back to my father's palace, consult with him and Tauriel, and find you before you lose the path. At least I hope so. Either way, I will be there to lead the attack against the spiders, and arrest you._

"_You will all be taken to the woodland realm, which should be safest considering that there is a pack of orcs on your trail. While your friends will be imprisoned, however, I will make sure that you stay free without the others knowing._

"_We will talk to my father, then, and make further plans. We must be careful that Bilbo never gets to see us when he travels through shadow, and if he still does we must make sure to tell him the truth and let him swear an oath of secrecy before he informs Oakenshield._

"_When the time has come you will leave with your friends per barrel, and my people will come to your aid against the orcs. My father and I will have about a day to work on our plans for the battle, while no elves will be allowed to leave our kingdom. You will stay behind in Esgaroth, then, when your company leaves for Erebor, and I will come there with Tauriel, like I did the last time. Together we can kill the yrch and maybe even help save some of the men when the dragon attacks, I think we can risk that slight of a change._

"_This way we should be able to maintain the timeline, and at the same time we do not have to watch without being able to act. Also, we have the chance to atone for mistakes made in the past, and make plans for what we will do if Galadriel gives her consent. What do you think?_"

"_That sounds mightily wise and complicated_," Gimli huffs, winking. "_I could never have come up with it. Once again it is proven that you immortal folk are far better at planning and meddling than us mortals. However, I suppose that skill is quite necessary, for you have to live with your own chaos for millennia._"

Chuckling softly Legolas agrees by cocking his head. "_That we do_," he consents easily, taking the half-hidden compliment for what it is. "_Now, what do you think of it? We can make more detailed plans as soon as we are with my father, where your companions cannot find out – after we have gone through the problem of the great Lord Thranduil accepting a dwarf as a friend of his son, of course. Which should not cost us _too_ much time._"

Gimli raises both eyebrows. "_Not _too_ much?_" he echoes, doubt clear in his voice.

The elf dismisses it, not bothered in the slightest. "_You know my father_," he says, and Gimli barely manages to keep himself from answering with "That exactly is the problem!"

"_He will throw a tantrum, calm down, and be all for it. It was the same the last time, when we went to meet him. It was also the same when I announced that I was to accompany Frodo to Mordor. And when I chose fighting knives as my preferred weapons beside the bow. And when I wanted my first own horse. And when I refused to attend my lessons as long as that particularly stupid tutor taught them. And when I decided that I was old enough to get rid of my nursemaid. It is always the same, really, and gets boring after few hundred years._"

Gimli huffs. "_If you say so…_"

"_I do._"

"_Then I guess I will have no choice but to believe you._" He grins lopsidedly. "_Now, I have also got something for you._" He rises, then, and begins to take off his armour, followed by the chainmail. (Which does not happen as quietly as he would have liked. Fortunately, his companions are deep asleep and even Bilbo has given himself over into the arms or Irmo.) Legolas watches with amused disbelief; however, understanding dawns in his eyes when his friend produces a stack of parchments covered with notes.

"_Erestor helped me_," the dwarf explains. "_I remembered which books you deemed interesting enough when you looked up the matter as we were waiting for Frodo's recovery, and Erestor browsed through those which I did not understand._"

The elf's eyes are shining. "_I shall be reading these as soon as possible. Did you gather any new or useful information?_"

"_Nothing new, but some things useful indeed_," Gimli answers.

Legolas nods and skims through the first page, before stowing the precious information away.

"_Oh, I almost forgot_," the dwarf speaks up. "_Lord Elrond has offered his help as well. He seems to be convinced that we have been sent here to change the course of history. Well, _me_, actually. I told nobody but my parents about your presence in this time, wanting to protect you. The Lady Galadriel might have gossiped, though._"

It is the older one's turn to raise his eyebrows. "_That is good to know. It seems you have managed to get acquainted with some elves without my help this time, despite your obvious prejudices?_"

"_I am called Elvellon for a reason. And elves _are_ gossips_," Gimli pouts.

Again Legolas laughs, brightly and clearly. "_Of course. What did you do to get to them, apart from being worthy of being gossiped about?_" His voice is teasing, but the happiness in his eyes is hard to miss.

"_I got royally drunk with Erestor._"

This time the elf presses delicate fingers against his lips in order to keep from cracking up with laughter and ultimately waking the others; instead he shakes with a silent conniption. "I should have known," he finally grins, still breathing heavily. "I am well aware of Erestor's love for good wine."

Gimli's eyes are twinkling. "_It seems ale is also to his liking._"

A twitching golden eyebrow. "_Quite likely he simply wanted to best you, showing that elves can take more ale than dwarves; no matter what your people claim._"

"_He had no more than two bottles of wine in the first place! And he invited me to join him!_"

"_Then… maybe he needed an excuse for drinking large quantities of ale?_" the elf gives in, shaking his head.

Gimli agrees, snickering. "_I find that possibility far more probable to be the truth._"

"Sure you do," Legolas grins. "Now, tell me, my friend, has anything else interesting happened?"

"I could simply tell you about _everything_ that has happened," the younger one offers. "If we are lucky we have got all night to inform each other about the past weeks."

"Just like we did after every battle?" the elf asks, smiling fondly.

"Aye. Just like that." There may or may not be some dangerous emotions trickling into his voice.

Legolas does not comment on that, but his eyes are shining. "Do tell me, then. I certainly want to know everything." There it is again, that boundless elvish curiosity.

And smiling as well, Gimli tells his dear friend _everything_, from the moment he woke up, over seeing the princes – realizing how painful this was going to be – to meeting Bilbo Baggins. He talks about how happy he was to see Gandalf again – Gandalf the Grey – and about the incident with the trolls, a story the aged Bilbo had told particularly readily. He mentions Elrond's surprise, the rooster fight tournament, and Lindir's exasperation, as well as Galadriel's infinite beauty and her cocky smile when she gave him the three golden locks. Then he describes the thunder battle, the ridiculousness of Goblin Town, and the shock of finally facing Azog. Legolas knows all that, of course, has heard those tales from Frodo and Gimli himself often enough, but this first-hand account is something entirely different from adventure stories told by a campfire in order to keep the nightmares at bay.

Gimli talks about his uneasiness during flying on eagles' back, and the way he impatiently waited for meeting Beorn. Openly he mentions his pains and fears, admitting how much he was scared for each of his companions' lives, as well as the fellow time-traveller's.

They know each other so incredibly well, and there are only very few secrets between them (like the way Gimli truly feels for his friend). He knows that Legolas will appreciate his openness, and – smiling – ends with how much he has missed the elf. "_I am so used to having you at my side in any kind of fight life might throw at me_," he says. "_Marching against orcs and goblins, and getting drunk with elves – it just felt _wrong_ without you._"

Legolas smiles brightly. "_You cannot imagine my relief when I received your letter_," he answers. "_I feel exactly the same way. We have gone through so many hardships together, nothing should be able to part us. Nothing but…_" He stops, clearly fighting for the word to leave his mouth.

"_…death_," Gimli finishes. "Do not think about me being mortal, laddie. You know my mulishness. If I wanted to come back for a nice, proper banter and drinking game not even Mandos and Mahal together would be able to keep me."

The laugh that follows is rather jerky. "I suppose," Legolas agrees, and quickly changes the topic.

Gimli squirms uneasily. He has not been aware of how much that bothers his elvish friend, and feels guilty for not realizing. He knows that he will look old and wrinkled when Legolas will not even have reached the prime of his life, but he has never cared. The elf will always be there for him, he does not doubt that.

What he has completely forgotten (or rather supressed) is that he will not always be able to be there for the elf.

Oh dear.

"_Let me tell you about what has happened to me in the last weeks_," his dark and guilty thoughts are suddenly interrupted.

"_Alright_," the dwarf mutters, letting himself be distracted. He will have more than enough time to think about that particular problem. However, suddenly he starts up: "_There is something I completely forgot to mention! You are not going believe whom I met in Rivendell!_"

Legolas stares at his friend, curiosity plainly visible in his too-blue eyes. "_Whom?_"

Gimli grins. "_A friend dear to both of us, although much younger than the last time we saw him._"

* * *

><p><em>TBC<em>


	10. And the day is again full of promise

I love Beorn

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><p><strong>10. And the day is again full of promise<strong>

_The Lord Of The Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring – Chapter 8: Fog on the Barrow-Downs_

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><p>"<em>Him? You are talking about a male, then – whom you stumbled upon in Imladris. That means they would have to be of my people; however, we are not dear friends with an elf young enough to be looked upon as 'much younger' after a leap in time of only barely eighty years.<em>" The dwarf rolls his eyes at that – elves, and their conception of time. Legolas furrows his brow, the enforced wrinkles creasing up his usually perfectly smooth skin. "_Unless…_" he says, slowly, beginning to understand "_they are not of elvish blood at all. I do know a great king of men who grew up in Rivendell, under Lord Elrond's gentle care, and it was there that he lost his heart to Arwen Undómiel…_" It is his turn to do the calculating. "_… you have met ten-year-old Aragorn?_"

Gimli smiles fondly. "_I did. However, he is called Estel these days._"

"_I have to admit that I am very envious of you having such luck. I wish I could have seen him, too! Tell me about him, please, mellon nín._" In his voice Gimli hears the same longing he feels whenever he thinks about those they have left behind in the time they belong to.

"_He was downright sweet, a darling little boy who moved and spoke as if he were one of the elves around him. When I realized who he was I could not help but approach him, and found out that young Estel is only too eager to see the world – and to meet you. I might have mentioned that I had an elvish friend who taught me his words so we may talk more easily. I promised that we would come to meet him after all this is over._"

Legolas smile is ever so gentle. "_He has often told me that he was a happy child_," he agrees, voice wistful. "_I always wished that I would have met him back then, before he became a ranger and stumbled upon Mirkwood, before we made fast friends – when his heart was still filled with excitement and peace. Before he knew that he was destined to be King. I have always loved him like a brother, despite having missed those years that were the happiest of his life. I have to thank you then, my dear friend, for telling him about me and promising that we would meet._"

"_How could I have acted differently? He means so much to both of us, after all that we have gone through together._"

"_That he does_," the elf agrees, his eyes revealing that he is caught in distant memories of a faraway time. Shaking his head he visibly returns to the present. "_Now, shall I tell you about what has happened to me since we were parted?_"

"_I may not be of elvish blood, yet I _am_ rather curious_," the dwarf winks. "Come on now, laddie. Let me know."

"_It is not elvish curiosity that is plaguing you, my dear friend, but dwarvish impatience._" Twinkling blue orbs divulge how much the older of the two friends enjoys this banter the kind of which both of them have missed dearly. An amused smile playing around his fair lips he begins to recount: "_I was not woken by my family, like you were, but woke up all by myself, alone in the suite that has been mine for centuries. It took me hours to figure out what had come to pass – I have to admit that, in the beginning, I was convinced my father had commanded to have me abducted in order to keep me away from you, wary as he was of our friendship. I remembered falling asleep with you and suspected that we had been ambushed by my kin, and that I had forcibly been returned to my father's halls, unconscious. I worried for you, and was all but ready to hit Ada over the head with whatever blunt item I might find when I realized that my door was not at all locked, like I had assumed._

"_I made straight for where I suspected my father to be, then, still ready to put all blame on him. I burst in on a rather important conference, not caring what I might be interrupting – and caused quite a ruckus, I have to admit. At first, Ada and I were both confused. However, we realized at the same time, I think. We were staring at each other, both ready to release a tirade – he about to reprimand me, and me wanting to accuse him for taking me away from you – when I _saw_ it. Maybe you would not have been able to tell the difference, for neither of us has aged visibly in those eighty years. However, the look in his eyes was vastly different, and I suppose the one in mine was too._"

He would have seen it, Gimli thinks. He would always be able to tell the difference between _his_ elf and the one Legolas had been before.

"_Ada threw out all his advisors then, rather unceremonially I might add, and told me to sit with him. He did not hesitate to ask me what time I had come from – he had seen other time-travellers before me; however, none that had been sent back the same way we were. Of course not, both of us know that our case has been unprecedented._" His eyes fall upon where he has tucked away Gimli's research. "_Also, he immediately knew that I had seen war. Apparently he is already suspecting that something is stirring in the east, despite acting like it was of no concern for us. In fact I gave him quite an earful for that…_" The tips of his pointed ears are blushing. "_Anyway. It was hard to keep details of the War of the Ring from him, but in the end he surrendered, aware of how much risk our knowledge of the future entails. He asked if I had come alone, and it was then that I began to realize what that would mean. I did not dare to contact you, afraid of what might happen if you were not the Gimli I knew, but one eighty years younger._

"_Convinced that if anyone had travelled through time with me it would be you, I did not try to make contact with Gandalf or Aragorn either; however, not being able to do anything took its toll._

"_We did not make many plans after that, for I was too shaken, and he did not know enough. I spent the next days recalling what had happened when these events had come upon me the last time, and felt certain that, if you were here, you would be accompanying Thorin Oakenshield to his mountain, quickly having realized that his quest for Erebor was about to take place. Should you go along would mean that we could easily meet, for you would be coming to Mirkwood. It made my heart lighter, and at the same time heavier, for I did not know whether you would be arriving with him or not._

"_When I received your letter I was… _very_ relieved. Truth be told, I may have acted a bit foolishly, and it took my father no more than a few seconds to understand that I had not come alone, and that my companion meant much to me. He asked about you, then, and I was torn. However, I have never been able to lie to him. Knowing that he would find out either way, I finally made my decision and took delight in telling him that I was friends with a dwarf now, and that he would have to accept it. That he had actually accepted it already, in a faraway future, and that I was prepared to do whatever necessary in order to be reunited with you – the only person I knew in this time where I did not belong. He took it better than I had expected, which, as I have to admit, does not mean much._"

Gimli cannot help but snort at that.

Legolas quirks an eyebrow, clearly amused, and continues: "_I was in much better a condition, then, and told him that he was going to meet you within a few weeks' time, when you would be arriving with a small company of other dwarves. Unfortunately he connected the dots rather quickly, and realized that Oakenshield was going to come for Erebor. It took me more than a day to calm him down again, to stop his wrath. My father is a proud and stubborn person, cold even, and not the king all of my people had hoped him to be. However, he cares for them, deeply, for every single elf – and he has never risked their lives if not absolutely necessary. The thought alone that Thorin Oakenshield was about to waken that dragon who has been blissfully asleep for so many years angered him greatly, for he has seen dragon fire, and the way it burns everything to ashes._

"_I told you this, mellon nín, to make you understand why he feels that way, should he say one or another thing… rude when you meet. The arrival of your second message was very well timed, it distracted him from his silly thoughts of revenge – he sure knows how to hold a grudge – and we finally began to make some plans. Both of us knew that going along with history, trying to keep everything the way it happened the last time, was the best we could do until we were told differently. I told him everything I remembered that had come to be the last time, and we began to make sure that those events that would not unfold on their own would be forced to happen. We decided to tell Tauriel, then, that I had come from the future, and that she was to listen to all my orders even if they should seem strange without questioning them, for she is the captain of my father's guard and able to help us a great deal. We told her nothing more, since I insisted that we consult with you before letting any others know about what will be happening. However, I also informed the skinchanger about some details, so that he would let me and my horse wait with him for the day you would arrive. We agreed that during day I would hide on the roof when I saw you come and not show myself until he returned to his human body; while at night we would go on patrol together._

"_Those weeks of waiting were long and dragged on, and every night I hoped to find you when the two of us returned from keeping guard, fighting off the many stray orcs that are crawling through these lands. I certainly regretted telling you not to stay in contact, despite knowing that it was best_," he finally ends, one of his delicate hands finding Gimli's calloused one and treading their fingers together.

The dwarf's heart leaps in his chest, and he feels a deep blush creep up his (fortunately) bearded cheeks.

The elf smiles genuinely, and then turns his head towards one of the huge windows. "Dawn is rising. Soon your companions will be up and about, and I have agreed with Beorn that he will send you off as soon as you are properly fed, strengthened for the perils and hardships that are still awaiting you. If your company does not manage to disgruntle him completely he will give you some of his ponies upon condition that you let them free before entering Mirkwood, and grant for your safety. In the meantime, my horse is elvish and rested. I can ride harder than you, and if I leave now I will be able to alert my father to your upcoming arrival, ensure that Tauriel and a squad of guards are prepared to fight off the spiders with me, and maybe even make it back to the elven gate before you reach it."

He seems to be as reluctant to leave as Gimli is to let him go; however, the dwarf knows that his friend is right. Thus he rises and puts his hand onto his still seated friend's shoulder in the traditional elvish way. "_Take care of yourself, mellon nín_," he says sincerely. "_I know that you can hold your own, but there are still orcs out there who would love to feast on your skinny frame. Please do not abandon your own safety for the sake of speed. I could never forgive myself were you injured when I could have been there to help you._"

That his friend does not give a biting retort about being able to look after himself tells Gimli that the elf has understood what he has wanted to say.

"_Then I must ask of you to be careful as well. Do not think you are safe just because your companions lived the last time._"

The request is as serious and as well meant as his own, so the dwarf smiles a shaky smile and releases the other one's shoulder from his grip. "_I shall be looking out for you when we reach that forsaken forest_," he says, trying to tease and reassure his friend at the same time. "_I can scarcely wait to meet your father… once again._"

Legolas laughs at that, bright pearls that ripple through the silent air, and when the last echo of the melodic sound has faded Gimli is sitting at the table alone, nothing left to prove that the elf has really been here, nothing but a sweet memory.

Beorn rises from where he has sat for all the night, then, having held a vigil, and stands next to the dwarf.

"I have to admit that I had never imagined dwarves to be able to talk that quietly. Or to make an elf laugh honestly," he remarks, his voice dry and amused. "Your friend is very wise, Gimli Glóin's son, and you have my help in whatever way you may need. You are different from your kin. I will see to it that you reach the forest safely, and if you require assistance with what comes afterwards – please let me know, and I shall go to your aid. Azog the defiler has long been an enemy of mine, and I would do anything to see him bleed."

"Thank you," Gimli offers, sincerely, his eyes on the iron manacle. "I greatly appreciate your help. Also, let me tell you that there will be… a battle; for the Lonely Mountain. I could never ask of you to fight alongside dwarves, for you surely owe us nothing and the fortunes of Erebor are not of your concern. However, if you should really want to take revenge on the one who enslaved you so many years ago – this would be your opportunity. If not – I will understand either decision, for I have taken vengeance and I have forfeited it."

The skinchanger really looks at him, then, for the first time. Dark, wild eyes pierce into his own, appearing to stare into his very soul. "You are not like other dwarves I have met," Beorn acknowledges, again, a tiny smile playing around his lips. "I begin to see how you have come to call an elf your dearest friend. Expect me to fight alongside you and Legolas Greenleaf, for upon your shoulders lies the fate of this world. However, I would ask you to tell me about the time you have come from when all is said and done. I do like good stories."

Gimli smiles. "A good story it is indeed, although not one to be told young children before bedtime. It will be a small price for your help."

"I can hardly wait to hear it," Beorn admits, before averting his eyes again, looking east. "Your companions will waken soon. I will act as if this conversation has never taken place, like your elf asked me to. I shall meet you again in battle, then, and anticipate hearing what cards fate has had up its sleeve for you."

After that is said the giant man makes for the door, moving more quietly than one could expect of the huge feet. "My friends will be preparing breakfast now. You should let yours sleep as long as they will, a hard time is awaiting you. Nobody should go to meet Thranduil of the woodland realm without a good night's sleep and a proper breakfast." With that he vanishes out into the dawn, and leaves it to Gimli not to wake his companions with the loud barking laughter that is threatening to spill from his lips.

The dwarf spends a few more minutes sitting at the huge table, and now it bothers him less than it did before that the elf has already left again. They have a plan, after all, and he is going to see the other before night falls.

What more could he ask for?

Well.

Peace and quiet maybe, for that is unthinkable when first Dwalin, and shortly after Fíli and Kíli awaken, followed by Nori and Bofur. The latter immediately takes up his usual chatter, and Gimli is not sure whether to be annoyed or smile fondly at his companion. One by one he watches them gather around the huge table, Bombur being the last of the dwarves who opens his eyes the very moment the smell of freshly made bread fills the fresh morning air breezing in through a now open window.

Not much later Bilbo wakes up as well, and Beorn, with the help of two of his sheep friends, serves them a strictly meet-less but still very satiating breakfast. The cups into which he pours fresh milk are almost as long as the dwarves' arms; however, neither of them complains. They are far too relieved to get a proper meal again (and also far too wary of their huge host).

Gimli tucks in, enjoying the skinchanger's hospitality, and watches fondly as his companions try to display their best manners. Certainly the elves would still be appalled, but Beorn does not mind their ways.

The time-traveller lays his eyes upon each of his friends and thinks about how much better he has gotten to know them in those past few weeks they have lived and fought at each other's sides. He looks at Thorin, whose kingly qualities he has finally come to appreciate, behind whose mask he sees and understands more with every day, who reminds him so much of Aragorn. The two kings without a throne he would follow everywhere (even to banter with the dead, he thinks fondly) are not all that unalike.

Fíli and Kíli are sitting close to Thorin, like always, torn between thinking of him as their leader and their uncle. The latter is becoming more and more difficult; however, they are stubborn lads, and their love for the one who has brought them up like a father is pure and unconditional. They are a little subdued at the moment, in the face of Beorn's enormity and the memory of his bear form, but their usual liveliness and mischief is just waiting around the corner.

Then there are Balin and Dwalin, both loyal beyond all measures. They could not be any more different – a scholar who has been forced to fight, and a warrior who has been forced to act as a diplomat – and yet they are as close as brothers can be. Seeing Balin every day, the way he had remembered him before leaving for Moria with Ori and Óin, all old and wise but still a force to be reckoned with, and that gentle smile almost attached to his lips; that has eased the ache in Gimli's heart that had taken residence there the moment he had come upon his dear uncle's tomb in the depths of Khazad-dûm.

Dori, as always, has a close eye on both his brothers. The time-traveller had known them before this quest, of course, with the company always having stayed close in his timeline. Now, however, he is getting to know them on a much more personal level, and he is enjoying every second of it. Ori is a sweet, gentle soul, not made of fighting material, but still ready to die for this quest. All of this company have gone through hard times, but especially those three brothers. There is a reason Nori has learned a rather unsavoury trade, and Dori always keeps an eye on his youngest brother. They love each other dearly, and it is hope for a better life that has brought them onto this quest. And while Dori might fear for his brothers' lives all the time he also sees the changes in them, and appreciates them greatly.

Bifur is not that easy to get to know; however, Gimli has taken it upon himself to bond with that dwarf as well. A survivor of Azanulbizar, but scarred for life, he does not ask inconvenient questions and is happy with the simple things in life; and a pleasant discussion partner. Bofur and Bombur are easy to get along with, too, and the time traveller has spent many a walking hour talking to either of them.

Then there is Óin, his uncle. The one whose death had not nearly affected him as much as Balin's which he now regrets very much. For a young child the healer is not easy to get to know; however, Gimli is a seasoned warriors himself now, and readily deals with the older one's mostly gruff mood, for he has found the – cliché – soft core underneath the hard shell.

The last one he looks upon, listening to Beorn's tale with half an ear, is his own father. Both of them are so very proud of each other, and Gimli spends many hours in the barely older one's presence, enjoying the knowledge that he does not need to keep his identity secret from him; all the while remembering the heartfelt words his parents had spoken that morning when he had woken up in a wrong time: _"You will always be our son."_

The smile trickles from his lips when he hears Beorn say that he is the only one of his kin left, and when the skinchanger looks directly at him he sees it in the giant man's eyes – that he _is_ going to take revenge for what wrongs have been done to him and his family.

Beorn then states that they have not much time left and Gandalf when mentions that they are planning on taking the elf path through Mirkwood, Thorin's features darkening visibly. Obviously the wizard did not inform him of this plan.

The only one to see the twinkle in the skinchanger's eyes Gimli listens as he warns them: "The elves of Mirkwood are not like their kin. They are less wise, and more dangerous." Absent-mindedly he registers that the man continues, while his thoughts turn to Legolas like they always tend to do. He knows that his friend would not be upset about this statement, for both of them know it to be true. Thranduil's family has always acted on heart rather than reason, like Galadriel and Elrond are known to do. However, that does not mean that the woodelves and their royal family are daft or ignorant. They simply live a different life, underneath a huge forest full of perils and with the stars so far away.

Gimli tunes back in when Beorn tells his companions that he likes orcs even less than dwarves, and asks them for what they need.

Of course Gandalf is quick to request ponies for the dangerous journey to Mirkwood, animals Beorn loves like children, and both the time traveller and the skinchanger know that everything will come to be the way it should. Neither of them misses the way the wizard squints his eyes at their silent interaction; however, neither of them cares. Gandalf will leave the company alone before they enter the forest, and Gimli tries not to think about the way his father had sounded _betrayed_ when he had told his family about that particular event.

Soon they are off, heading towards the dark wood looming in the distance, and Gimli feels his heart lighten up with each mile they draw closer. He does not look forward to entering that dark shadow, not at all, but he knows that Legolas will be there, waiting for him, and with the elf at his side he can take anything.

* * *

><p><em>TBC<em>


End file.
